


The Tourney of The Dawn

by apolla



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A happier ending for GoT, AU after 8x3, After the Last War, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon compliant up to S8 E3, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, SERIOUSLY. DON'T READ THIS UNTIL YOU'VE SEEN EPISODE THREE., The Knight of the Laughing Tree Rides Again, dadvos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: After the wars, a tourney is announced. Revels in celebration, relief and perhaps as a form of recovery.The wars changed so much for all people in Westeros, and yet...There's a Baratheon in the melee, a Stark in the joust...Maybe the more things change, the more they stay the same.Then again, Arya Stark seems to be wearing a dress of her own accord so it is a whole new world.





	1. A Tourney Is Announced

He was going to faint. After all the terrors and horrors and hardships, _now_ was when he was going to faint.

He'd never, _ever_ live this down.

 

*

 

In the long, renowned history of Seven Kingdoms tourneys, The Tourney of The Dawn was by no measure the grandest. There had been no time or inclination to cover the tourney grounds with miles of streaming banners and not even the finest people in the Seven Kingdoms had food enough for high excess.

It was not the _grandest_ , but it was remarkable and in its own particular ways, a tourney to remember for all time: one not of celebration precisely, but of _relief_.

The Night King was dust. The Wildfire Queen's pyre was ash on the breeze. After so many years of suffering, it was time for revels of survival and recovery.

The smallfolk had the most exceptional opportunity to attend any tourney in living memory. The old city tourney grounds had been destroyed during the wars, so the Queen had commandeered the use of a massive tract of land between Hayford Castle and King's Landing on the north-west bank of Blackwater Rush.

Wood was one of the few resources still in plentiful supply in the Crownlands, and enormous viewing stands had been built to allow thousands of even the humblest smallfolk to watch the varied and many events of the tourney.

There were five tilt-yards for jousting and an arena carved out of the earth for the melee. Scores of food and drink stalls lined the walkways and many (but never enough) privies were built over three huge pits.

For the smallfolk, it was all free. That is, excepting beer - this had seemed a step too far even for this munificent Queen, although some grumblers admitted that thousands of people drunk on free beer were a recipe for disaster.

The royal dais sat beside the grandest tilt-yard, but it lacked the ornate decoration of tourneys of old. Two large chairs, of course, behind which the sigil fluttered in the breeze, and benches for the royal guests and members of the court.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of tents lined the riverbanks almost as far as the eye could see. The Queen's tent was on higher ground, not too close to the river or latrines, and those of her closest friends and advisors radiated out from it. As in life, so in camp.

It was undoubtedly true that folks - small or grand - needed a diversion, but it was also true that the Queen knew the tourney would employ men and women. So many, many people had died, but the upheaval still meant that unemployment was widespread.

Excitement about the tourney had built up over the six moons since it was announced, not long after peace finally settled upon the Kingdom. People had travelled from all corners and they took delight in seeing unfamiliar sigils and costume. Northerners were scandalised by the design of Reach fashion, while the Reach-folk were perplexed at how the Northerners could wear so many layers and not sweat themselves into the grave.

For the most part, it was good-natured, and if it was not, the City Guards were ready to pacify the miscreants.

 

*

 

On the first day of the tourney - a bright, crisp Spring day - the Queen arrived with fanfare, flanked by her Queensguard. It was the first time many smallfolk had seen her in person.

They cheered and cried and applauded her, waving their hands up at the woman some were calling The Deliverer and others yet The Great Queen. Anyone who thought she might be mad or despotic or unworthy in any way...stayed quiet but observant at such a display.

There were those in the crowd, yet only a minority, who had come with the Queen from the East. These folks, with whom some Westerosi were not yet accustomed, did shout 'Mhysa!' or 'Breaker of Chains' depending on their preference. The Dothraki survivors bellowed 'Khaleesi!' and dared anyone to question them.

Whatever tumult might follow - and nobody was foolish enough any longer to believe it would not - for this one tourney, all was well and the Queen was loved as much as she was feared.

She took her place to watch the melee and the ladies, and non-competing gentlemen of the court followed suit.

These grand figures were well-known to the smallfolk in new legend and song, although those old enough to remember the before-times muttered to their companions that they no longer looked quite so grand or colourful as they once had.

The wars had taken some of the finest and most outlandish figures from public life. Some few spoke approvingly of the dashing Knight of Flowers, who bested the reviled Mountain through cunning. Others spoke with fondness of charming Renly Baratheon or charismatic, seductive Oberyn Martell.

The rarest of smallfolk - the old who had somehow survived so much for so long - remembered further back and spoke adoringly of Ser Barristan the Bold who jousted with Prince Duncan as a young man and Prince Rhaegar as an older one. Some recalled beautiful shining Rhaegar with tears in their eyes, remembering times when the land was peaceful even if the king was mad. Many who hadn't been in King's Landing knew little directly of Aerys Targaryen's brutality and the tinge of times long gone made them sentimental.

What a king Rhaegar would have made, the old women cried as they claimed to have been at Harrenhal when he crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty. If only...

At least, these women said, Daenerys Targaryen was much like that lost brother with her silver hair and bright violet eyes. Nostalgia was a powerful fire in weary hearts who remembered times already half-forgotten.

All was well, for now.

 

*


	2. A Melee Fit For A Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney opens with a vast melee. Any man might make his fame or fortune, if he's brave enough and strong enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this one in before 8x3 just because. 
> 
> This story is TV canon-compliant as up to the end of episode 8x2 because... well, at least I've still got a chance of having some characters to use.
> 
> Valar morghulis, I guess....................

The Queen understood well enough that many spectators were more interested in the melee than any refinement in the joust, and so it was that the melee was the first of the big events to take place, following smaller displays by dance troupes and small groups of musicians eager to ensure their songs were the ones that the people would be singing long beyond this day.

The melee was open to any man brave enough to enter the arena. In years gone by even this unrefined event was restricted to knights and notables but the wars had left the Kingdom with a lack of such fellows, and so this time, anyone might be victorious. All a man had to be was brave, tenacious and strong enough.

The sun was already rising high and warm in the sky when the melee began. Spectators fanned themselves with cheap little fans made for the occasion and selling from stalls at twice their value, or with anything they might have to hand. Young vendors, barely past seven namedays in some cases, ran from the river to the stands with cups of cool water in exchange for a coin or two.

At the royal pavilion, servants stood with large fans swinging back and forth while parasols in bright colours kept the harsh sun from the delicate skin of ladies sat with intricately-made fans with sigils. Several of the would-be combatants passed by to bow to the Queen or to catch the eye of a young lady there sat.

At least one favour was passed on, amidst nervous laughter and whispered gossip. In this way, very little was different from any previous tourney.

There were recognisable sigils on armour as the combatants lined up to enter the arena, although perhaps not as many as there had been before the wars. No Lannister lions, no Tarly huntsmen or Tyrell roses. No Martells, Freys or Boltons. Many a Northern house that might once have brought representation was missing, for they had been the first and the greatest to suffer at the undead hands of the Night King and his walkers.

Yet, sharp-eyed spectators noted the presence of golden Orme harps and white Mertyns owls; of Andar Royce’s runes and the ominous scythe on black of the Iron Islands’ House Harlaw. Mutters spread that the star-and-sword of House Dayne had been seen had yet to be verified, but it was not without chance that young Edric Dayne might have arrived to follow in his uncle’s renowned footsteps.

Without sigils, there were thin fellows and big fellows, short and tall and young and not-quite-so-young. There were retired goldcloaks and members of the new Guard, eager to smash skulls. There were young men determined to grab at a chance to make more of themselves than life had so far given them.

Anyone could enter the melee, and that meant anyone could win. Fame and fortune were for the taking. All a man had to be was strong enough and brave enough.

Almost at the last minute, and with long, deliberate strides, a figure in black armour entered the arena. His helm bore small, discreet antlers and if one knew where to look, they would see a Baratheon stag rampant.

The armour was subtle, formed for function rather than decoration and might not have identified the wearer immediately. The war hammer in his hand, however, immediately cast him as the Lord of Storm's End.

At that moment, many of the men in the arena knew they had no hope of victory. Some exited the arena there and then, having recalculated their odds and found them lacking.

A voice rang out, deep and rough, from under a plain helm: 'Bit fucking late!'

'I like to make an entrance, Clegane.'

'You Baratheons and your dramatics. Your father was the same.'

The war hammer swung upwards, sending young men scattering. 'He and I are not the same.'

'He couldn't take a joke either.'

'I hope that shiny new helm is well-made.'

'So do I. We don't all have our own armourers.'

Another voice cut in over their noise, higher-pitched and a little nervous. 'Are they going to natter each other to death?'

Fortunately for all involved, the fanfare to begin the melee sounded then. Two great cacophonies rose then: one from the gathered audience and one from within the arena.

The Baratheon with his hammer showed great restraint at first. He was not there to smash skulls, just to knock them a little, and he seemed content to use the handle of the hammer to send men flying - at first.

Up in the stands, the crowds cheered, jeered and yelled with abandon. Beer sloshed from wooden tankards, elbows hit ribs, feet stomped feet, and all was chaos.

In the good seats, fragrant and beautiful women jostled for the best view without wishing to be seen to do just that. The Queen watched with apparent neutrality, but those who knew her best could tell that her eyes followed her friends with the most interest and the best fighters with the greatest curiosity.

She was looking for new warriors, as she held no illusions of security or peace for her realm. She'd seen and done and lost far too much for that.

Seated close by the Queen, a young woman watched quietly, separate from the throng. Her narrowed eyes followed the action keenly, not ever breaking focus.

As was so often the case, the melee quickly reduced from hundreds of men to scores, to dozens, to a handful.

The plain-helmed Ser Sandor Clegane still stood, along with six others all arrayed against the Baratheon. He was swinging his hammer now but anyone who had seen him against the army of the dead knew that he was capable of much greater fury than this.

The older folks spoke of Robert Baratheon and how this son was the image of him; the younger cared nothing for Robert Baratheon but swooned and admired the strength, force and stamina of this storming warrior.

Ser Sandor was knocked into the dirt by a younger man and, shaken perhaps, he left the arena cursing but otherwise unharmed.

The man who bested Ser Sandor was soon the only one standing against the Baratheon. He was bigger even than Clegane and wielded a sword easily the length of his arm. He swung it with force (if not precision) and it was all the Baratheon could do to jump back and avoid an almighty clang against his ribs.

Every single woman of the court turned to look, however briefly, at the woman with the narrowed gaze. If she reacted, they could not tell, except for the flame-haired Stark woman who reached out and took her sister's hand.

'He'll be all right.'

Arya Stark's eyes did not leave the sight before her. 'I know that.'

On the field of battle, the two young men fought, neither quite yet with the upper hand.

The Baratheon seemed to slip in the mud, and the crowd held a collective gasp.

The other man reacted as they did, with shock and curiosity, and it was then that the hammer swung and knocked him clear across the arena.

The hammer seemed to hang in the air a moment, frozen by its own momentum, until its owner brought it down to his side. He did not release it from his grasp until the other man raised a hand in defeat and lost consciousness.

A cheer rose up loud enough to reach the North and Dorne at once.

A young squire rushed out to meet his lord, just in time to catch his discarded helm.

Gendry Baratheon turned to meet the sharp grey gaze of Arya Stark and bowed, if minutely, in her direction. He then bowed more appropriately in the Queen's direction.

Some would say, in years to come, that the young Storm Lord hardly even broke a sweat in the melee that day. Others yet that he walked away without a scratch or scuff upon his armour. These stories are not true, for he faced worthy opposition and earned his victory - though he would not compare it to the wretched chaos of a real battle.

Fanfare and cheers accompanied him to the Royal Pavilion, where he bent his knee to the Queen.

‘Well done, Lord Baratheon,’ she said, clear enough to be heard at a distance. ‘Take your prize, my lord.’

The Hand of the King handed the Queen a hefty leather purse and she wasted no time in placing it into Lord Gendry’s hand. Yet, as soon as it was in his grasp, the latest Storm Lord passed it back to her.

'I have no need of gold, Your Grace. Give it to those who need it.'

He spoke softly, so few others heard his words, but even those watching from a distance understood the sentiment and another cheer arose.

The Queen cocked her head a little and regarded him with curiosity. 'Are you sure, my lord?'

'There are plenty of empty bellies and roofless heads, Your Grace. Put it towards that.'

'I knew I liked you.' The Queen smiled her benevolent smile and handed the purse to the Hand of The King, who seemed entirely unsurprised and yet amused by the whole thing as he put the purse back into the great chest behind the Queen's temporary throne.

'You should hire that young man,' Gendry said. 'He's fierce and strong and didn't give up.'

'You had to fool him to win,' Arya Stark said, her eyebrow raised as she turned to look at him properly for the first time since he'd approached to claim his prize.

'Yes, milady.' His serious mien cracked into the slightest smile at last. 'Just as you taught me.'

 

*


	3. A Tree That Laughed (Again) Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a first time for most things, even if it's an echo of a long-ago, almost-forgotten time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP.
> 
> REALLY, STOP.
> 
> READ ME.
> 
> OK, so if you've seen Season 8 Episode 3, carry on reading with my blessing and good wishes. If you HAVEN'T, maybe don't, because I do make reference to something that happens and I want everyone to have the joy of discovery for themselves.
> 
> Now. If you're ready.... let's go.
> 
> (I'll aim for short chapters regularly - this isn't going to be an epic, I don't think).

The jousting began later that day with some minor knights battling each other for the right to enter the main lists. Other knights and warriors who had proven themselves in battle were already guaranteed a place in the main joust beginning the next day.

The tents behind the tilt-yards were a hive of activity as various knights and jousting competitors and their squires prepared for their contests.

In a small tent nestled a discreet distance from most, the smallest knight of all prepared, assisted by the largest of them.

‘Ow!’

‘My apologies, my lady! I-’ Brienne gritted her teeth as she secured the final piece of Arya's torso armour.

‘We should have asked a real squire to help us,’ said Arya with a grin.

Brienne frowned. ‘It would not be proper for you to be dressed by a young lad.’

‘For the first ever woman knight in the Kingdom, you’re awfully concerned with the way things _ought_ to be.’

‘Some things remain unchanged, my lady.’

‘Brienne-’

‘Arya.’

‘Does it look well?’

‘Indeed it does.’

Arya looked down at the gleaming silver breastplate. The laughing tree sigil upon it was freshly made, a temporary replacement for the more usual direwolf of House Stark. ‘I never thought…’

‘You will do well, my lady.’

‘At least I won’t have to hide like _she_ did.’

‘No, my lady. Except…’

‘Except?’

‘Did you inform Gend- Lord Baratheon - of your intentions?’

‘He was the one who made the sigil. And the armour, come to that.’

‘And he is happy for you to joust?’

‘Happy?’ Arya fidgeted inside the armour. She was used to Braavosi fighting techniques that required anything _but_ heavy, restricting armour and already felt too hot. ‘He knows better than to stop me.’

‘We _all_ know that.’

Arya’s grin widened, wolfish and full of teeth. ‘Good. Ever since Bran told me about Lyanna and the Tourney at Harrenhal, all I’ve been able to think about is this.’

‘All?’ Brienne buffed a metal arm-guard before sliding it up Arya’s arm. ‘You seem otherwise occupied at least some of the time.’

Arya blinked. ‘Was that a _joke_ , Brienne?’

‘I have been known, my lady.’

‘Peace suits you, Ser.’

Brienne blushed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you sure you won’t enter the lists?’

'It isn't a game for me.'

‘Better games than war.’ Arya shook her hair out and secured it with a leather tie. ‘What’s next?’

‘Well, I-’ Brienne cut herself off - shadows shifted as a figure came to stop outside the tent - and opened the door. ‘Congratulations on your melee victory, my lord.’

Gendry frowned as he slid himself through the barely-open door. ’Gendry.’

‘You are my liege lord and it would not be proper-’

‘Leave her be, Gendry,’ Arya cut in. ‘What do you want?’

‘To check your armour before you go out-’

She waved a hand in his general direction, catching a tent pole with her metal cuff. ’Stop fussing like an old septa.’

‘Arya-’

‘Gendry, unless you’re here to give me your favour, go away!’

At this, Gendry rolled his eyes and sent Brienne an amused glance. ‘My favour, milady?’

‘That’s what knights do, isn’t it?’

‘It has been known, but I hardly think you’re riding for my honour.’

Arya all but laughed directly in his face. ‘Of course I am! I’m certainly not riding for _mine_.’

Gendry coughed then, and Brienne tactfully went to fuss with Arya’s discarded women’s wear.

‘You didn’t ask me for a favour,’ she said.

‘No. Well.’ He flushed a deep red that had Arya suspicious indeed.

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing!’

‘You’re such a bad liar.’

He bent low to whisper in her ear, using his supposed inspection of her armour as cover. Had Brienne been looking, she would have seen a crimson blush rise swiftly up Arya’s neck into her cheeks as he told her.

Arya recovered after a moment but he was still close enough to feel the heat rolling off his frame. ‘So… what favour do I get?’

‘Arry…’

‘Gen _dry_ …’ She resorted to fluttering her eyelashes at him. It was not a sincere move by any means, rather a theatrical movement designed to make him laugh more than concede. It worked.

‘Fine.’ He untied the leather cuff from his wrist. ‘I reckon that’ll fit… your thigh, quite nicely.’

’Shut up, I’m not _that_ small.’ She took it from him and tucked it into her armour.

‘Yes, you are.’ To prove it, he pulled her into a hug and rested his chin on her head with room to spare.

Brienne sighed and left the tent entirely, leaving them both chuckling softly.

‘I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.’

‘Course you won’t,’ he replied without a moment of hesitation. ‘Why would you think that? Of all people-’

‘I don’t fight like this. Until six moons ago, I hadn’t held a fully-sized lance even _once_. It was a stupid idea-‘

She went to move away but his gentle grasp held firm. ’It wasn’t.’

‘I just wanted to be like her. Bran told me-’

‘I know. But Lyanna didn’t win the whole tourney.' Gendry adjusted one of the leather straps at her back. 'Just enough to set a wrong to rights. All you have to do is your best. And your best is-‘

‘My best is “everyone I wanted dead is dead”.’

‘So perhaps somewhere in the line of “not too bad” would suffice?’

‘You just don’t want me to win and crown you Queen of Love and Beauty.’

‘More that I think others will be angry if we take _all_ the glory, milady.’

‘I’m not going to win,’ she said. ‘I know that. But if it’s a disaster, they won’t let another woman compete for years.’

‘Arya, I’ve been watching you train every day. You’re not the most experienced or the strongest in the lists but you’re good enough.’

‘Good enough?’

‘Aye, and for someone who’s only done this for six moons, that’s not naught. So, stand up straight, march out there and knock some unfortunate sod off his horse.’

‘Thank you…’ she leaned into him, finding the armour an unwelcome barrier between them. ‘Will you be watching?’

‘Of course. I’ll be the one cheering loudest.’ He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. ‘I’ll fetch Brienne back for you.’

 

*

 

Three jousts took place before Arya’s tilt. Handsome young Edric Dayne sent the older folks into joyful memories of Ser Arthur as he easily unhorsed a young Oakheart; a youth surely still a squire rode against Sandor Clegane and was lucky just to be knocked off his horse; Brandon Tallhart and a young man bearing the sigil of House Lolliston broke nine lances each before Tallhart was obliged to resign the field through injury.

What nobody quite admitted - except for those particularly crude folks who are always somehow in attendance at any event - was how very _young_ almost everyone was. So few men had survived the wars that it seemed as though the only eligible jousting men were still closer to leading strings than manhood.

Arya was not only the first woman to openly compete, but she was herself in the category of ‘barely out of childhood’ as far as many were concerned. She had passed her nineteenth name-day several moons ago, but people looked and saw her size, not her experience. They saw her youth, not the flint in her expression.

They also saw the one who killed the Night King, but they still referred to her as a _girl_.

She was to face Ser Donnel Haigh. Lyanna had competed against a Haigh and she herself had briefly encountered Ser Donnel during her travels with the Hound. She had never forgotten his name, although it was never on her list.

He was older than her by some years and looked upon her with thinly-veiled disdain.

Arya made a point of mounting her horse unaided - her armour was light enough - and Brienne handed up her lance. It felt oddly weightless in her grip now that the moment was upon her and she was grateful for Brienne’s suggestion to use heavier lances in training.

She hated wearing a helm. In a real fight, she would never restrict her view or movement so much, nor weigh upon her neck, but even she could not ride in a joust without her head protected. The helm was plain, Gendry-made and as light as he could provide.

Her sand steed Argella was a gift from the Queen not long after the war: swift, clever and said to have been sired by Oberyn Martell’s last stallion - certainly, the mare was as black as dragon glass, as that horse had been.

Argella whickered but was calm as still water.

A better than decent chance, Arya allowed as Ser Donnel was announced and she saw him weighted down by full armour on an ageing destrier that shuffled as it fought to support such weight. She wanted to win through her own skill, but having a opponent at a disadvantage was no bad thing.

’And for House Stark, Lightbringer herself: Lady Arya Stark!’

There was a blast of noise from the public stands - songs and stories had spread as far as these Southron folks who hadn’t ever wholly believed that the happenings in the north were true. The courtly folk responded with more restraint, excepting Gendry’s promised bellowing and Sansa’s loyal whoop.

Arya slid a hand down Argella’s neck and nudged her forward to greet the Queen and the busy royal stand - many people had gathered to see Arya win or lose. She did not meet Gendry’s gaze or Sansa’s smile - no time to get distracted.

Her respects paid to the Queen, Arya rode across to the smallfolk and raised her lance in greeting to them. Their roared affection and respect warmed her from the inside out. A group of people started to sing one of the songs that had emerged since the wars. She hated it and rather hoped that, given time, something of a greater lyrical quality would emerge.

Ready at the end of the tilt-yard, Arya took several deep breaths, closing herself off from the cacophony. The moment upon her, she readied her lance and spurred her horse to action.

She had no intention of wounding Ser Donnel until she saw the angle of his lance. He was aiming for her neck. She ducked forward, keeping her own lance as level as she could manage. Haigh’s lance passed over the top of her head at the moment hers caught him almost square in the chest. Not quite a perfect hit, but enough to knock him off-centre.

She continued to the end of the yard, her lance splintered but not fully broken and turned just in time to see him lose what was left of his balance and fall into the dirt.

Applause and ringing cheers rose up. The stands shook with movement but all Arya felt was relief - and an aching shoulder where she had not followed the lance-blow quite as she ought.

Brienne came running to take Argella’s reins and a young squire lad took the lance.

Arya held a hand up to acknowledge the cheering spectators and turned to Brienne. ’Who’s next?’


	4. How Much Can Happen in a Single Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the super comments so far!
> 
> This chapter is much longer than I intended it to be but it ran away and I decided to let it, for once...

Arya would not joust again until the next morning, which she hardly minded but, as she didn’t care much to watch the other entertainments, she hadn’t much to do before the feast that evening. 

Once out of her armour and into her usual clothes, Arya went wandering. In part, she truly wanted to see and experience the joys of a tourney with the freedom she had not had as a young girl at the tourney held in her father’s honour. She also wanted to find Gendry. He was not waiting outside (or indeed inside) her tent after she re-dressed - she was not _disappointed_ of course, but she was surprised.

An old woman selling roast chestnuts refused Arya’s coppers and thrust a paper cup of them at her with teary-eyed thanks. A young boy selling mead dropped the tankard he was filling when he saw exactly who had asked for it.

Apparently even dressed in plain leathers and linen, without any sigils or markings, everyone knew Arya Stark on sight. At first, she thought to be annoyed or bitter, but as she cast her eye around, she realised that there were only two women who dressed at all like her, and Brienne was so much taller, that she _must_ be Arya Stark.

There were worse things than standing out in a crowd, she supposed. The boy, now red-faced and mortified, handed her a fresh mug of mead with trembling fingers.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Robb, m-… milady.’

’Thank you, Robb.’ She sipped. ‘This is fine mead.’

‘Thank you, milady.’

It was, in truth, adequate mead that ought to have been fermented a little longer, but Arya was glad of the small untruth when the boy smiled.

Clasping her tankard in one hand, she made her way from the entertainment area of the tourney group back to the area for competitors. Everything was temporary in nature and construction but there was everything one needed: fletchers and bowyers, cordwainers and clothworkers, farriers andstabling, armourers, a large smithy-

She stopped walking. A smirk quirked at her lips and she turned towards the noisy, busy blacksmiths shop. A plume of smoke from the furnace marked it as obviously the smithy and the clanging of tools on metal drew one close.

It was strange indeed to see such industry in a tent. It was open on all sides to provide ventilation with a thin sheet of canvas as a roof to provide shelter from the elements to those working.

Arya counted nine men working around the two small central furnaces. She recognised a couple of them as men who had worked in Winterfell before coming south with the Queen’s army.

A small crowd of men, women and children gathered by one end of the tent, watching intently as one of the smiths worked.

Arya was unsurprised to find Gendry the subject of such focus and at least now realised why he had not come to find her. She watched from a distance as he sat at an anvil, crafting something small and delicate that she could not see. Had she _ever_ seen Gendry sit down to work? It was strange indeed-

A voice from behind her interrupted: ’Lady Arya! What an honour it is.’

She sighed and turned. One of the former Winterfell smiths had spotted her. He held a large broken sword, pulled from his work by the sight of her.

Ahead at his station, Gendry’s head snapped up. She saw him notice two things: her, first of all and the crowd second. He hid whatever it was he was working on behind his back.

‘Lady Arya!’

‘Arya Stark!’

‘Lightbringer!’

‘Nightslayer!’

Arya patiently listened as the crowd move its attention to her. She allowed them their moments of excitement and tried her best to be gracious. By the time the crowd dispersed, Gendry had removed his leather apron and waited for her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I only meant to stop in while you were getting dressed.’

She shrugged. ‘No matter. I mean, I _only_ won my first ever joust. I mean, I _only_ nearly had my neck broken.’

His fists clenched. ’I noticed that.’

‘I suspect his problem is more historical than about me.’

‘Still.’

‘What are you making?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You are such a poor liar.’

‘Not nothing,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re not seeing it yet.’

‘Why not? Is it for me?’

‘Mayhaps, milady, but you always have something to say while I work and I don’t want you interfering.’

‘It’s not for me then. Whoever else are you making fine work for?’

‘Who said it was fine work?’

‘I may not myself be a trained blacksmith but I can tell the difference between smashing the shit out of a huge piece of iron and fussing around with little tools.’

‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for this feast later?’

‘I have time.’

‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a bush.’

‘Oi!’

‘I happen to _like_ your wildling appearance but I also know that Lady Sansa wants you looking presentable this eve. Something about not looking like you’re fresh off the battlefield.’

Arya sighed and let him take her arm as they left the forge for, she presumed, her tent. ‘What did they say in the royal pavilion when I jousted? Did they mock me for being mannish?’

‘Not once.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

’Tis true. Some of the ladies were surprised any lady would _want_ to joust. Some were envious and others said they would _never_ , but nobody mocked you.’

‘Times really have changed.’

‘I hope so.’ He took her mead and sipped from it. ‘This is pretty rough.’

‘Aye, but the lad selling it made me smile.’

’Should I be getting all furious?’

‘He was probably no more than nine, so no.’

‘That’s good. I think I wrenched my shoulder with that bloody hammer earlier.’

‘You did? Why didn’t you tell me? Have you seen the-‘

‘This is why I didn’t tell you. It just needs a little time.’

At her tent, she pulled him inside and started removing his shirt.

‘Here, milady? _Now_? Really-’

‘Shut up, bull. Let me see your shoulder.’

He sat so she could actually see it and she made him rotate his arm and pressed against the muscle.

‘Ow! Fucking seven hells, Arya!’

She dug what felt like her entire fist into the shoulder blade, making him hiss with suppressed pain as she found a tight muscle. After a few moments, it relaxed under her less-than-gentle attention.

‘Better?’

‘Thank you, milady.’

‘I remember Jory-’ her eyes misted briefly, ‘He was captain of the guard and Winterfell and came south with us when- never mind. He explained all this sort of thing to me. He must have known I’d end up like this too.’

‘Anyone who ever really knew you must have known you’d end up a warrior.’ He reached for her, his arm and shoulder sore but more mobile. ‘And anyone else didn’t know you.’

She allowed herself to be pulled into his lap and buried her face in his chest. ‘Ugh, you smell terrible! And you mock me for needing time to get ready for the feast.’

‘You don’t usually mind.’

‘We’re not usually invited to sup with the Queen…’ She pulled away and stood up. ‘I’ll… see you later, then?’

‘As milady commands.’

’Oh, fuck off.’

He hesitated before leaving and turned to fix her with an intense blue-eyed gaze. ‘You were magnificent, Arya. Nobody doubted that you belonged on the lists.’

A hot blush rose up her neck and hit her cheeks. ’Thank you, _Lord Baratheon_.’

‘I’ll see you at the feast, _my lady_.’ He grinned, winked at her and left swiftly to ensure he did, in fact, leave.

 

*

 

‘My lady?’ Brienne asked from outside the tent, sometime after Gendry’s departure.

‘Come in, Brienne.’

Brienne did, carrying an armful of brightly coloured garments. When she saw Arya still in her ordinary clothes, she couldn’t hold back a sigh. ‘My Lady. _Arya_.’

‘I thought perhaps… I might not go.’

‘Arya.’ This iteration of her name was firm but kind, even understanding. ‘This was your idea.’

‘I know it was, but I have stupid ideas sometimes.’

‘Well, you must be scared if you’re admitting to stupidity.’

‘I’m not scared!’

Brienne dropped the garments onto a chair and approached Arya slowly - nobody ever charged at Arya without consequence. ‘Sometimes I forget I have almost ten name-days on you. Nothing untoward or terrible will happen to you. I will be with you. And Lady Sansa has invited you to prepare for the feast with her.’

‘Must I?’

‘It would be easier than this.’ Brienne nodded at the plain, small tent. ‘She has attendants ready and what I suspect is a very nice bath.’

Arya looked at a point somewhere above Brienne’s head. ’But then… she’ll _see_ and I don’t- I want to- never mind.’

Brienne had known them both a long time and had heard Lady Catelyn’s stories even before that. ’She won’t tease you, Arya. I’m sure of it.’

‘You don’t know what we were like.’

‘Were.’

‘As children, I mean.’

‘I know. I meant _were_. You are both much changed. I remember your lady mother telling me about your battles, but the young women I know now are beyond such silliness.’

‘True…’ Arya changed tactics. ‘What about you? Our plan was to assist each other.’

Brienne laughed. ‘I will be fine. Pod will help with what I cannot do myself.’

‘But-’

‘Shall I carry you to Lady Sansa’s tent myself?’

‘No, but… you should at least come with me. Nobody should be readied for a feast by Pod. Probably not even Pod.’

 

*

 

The first-night feast was held in an enormous marquee at the edge of the tourney ground and hosted by Lady Hayford as the head of the local noble house, in honour of the Queen.

The ten-year-old did her best with her welcome to the guests, but anyone could see she was terribly nervous and constantly looked to her mother and septa.

‘Welcome, Lord Baratheon,’ she said, eyes wide as she cricked her neck to look up at him. “It is an honour to have the winner of the melee with us this night.’

Gendry knelt so that she need not strain herself. ‘Thank you, Lady Ermesande. The honour though, I think must be mine, to be greeted by such a gracious hostess.’

The little girl blushed but she also appeared to calm herself a little at his praise, and she straightened her shoulders before greeting the next guest. He got back to his feet and entered the madness.

Lady Hayford - or more likely, the women around her - had done a decent job. The tent was large, warm and full of light. Long tables ran its length and a set of passably good musicians played relatively good music in a corner near the High Table meant for the Queen and her people once she arrived.

He was not a fan of feasts, exactly. He enjoyed good food and wine as much as any man and had a weakness for good songs that only a few knew of. He did not like the feeling of being watched by vultures ready to swoop at his corpse if he said or did the wrong thing.

Lord of Storm’s End he might now be, but this was not his place. He looked the part well enough, but his costume felt like just that. He’d made peace with being a lord when it came to the every-day managing of an estate and being responsible for people. He could do _that_ , but this politics nonsense-

‘Lord Baratheon!’ It was, fortunately, a friendly voice that called to him: shining, handsome Ned Dayne in a purple cloak and matching purple-and-silver tunic. ‘I’m glad to see you, Gendry. Well done this morning!’

Gendry shrugged, feeling plain in black and a little like a large, cumbersome beast of burden next to golden Ned, the agile young stallion. There were only a handful of years between them but the Long Night and all the horrors before and after it made him feel one hundred years older than Ned. Ned, who was no coward and had done his share with the Brotherhood but who had not endured beyond-the-Wall or the Battle of Winterfell.

‘I’m sure many have said you were the image of your father,’ Ned said and Gendry realised that he’d missed something in his musings. ‘But really, I don’t see it. You fight with your head as much as your hammer.’

‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I suppose you’re expecting to win the joust?’

‘Of course!’ Ned laughed most heartily and even slapped Gendry on the back. ‘I wouldn’t have entered otherwise.’

‘You did very well today.’

‘My competition was spirited but inexperienced.’

‘I think most of us are inexperienced when it comes to this sort of thing.’

‘I squired with Ser Beric even before… before. He taught me much.’

‘Aye. I… how is your aunt?’

‘She will be well. In truth, she accepted the loss of her love the first time.’

‘She knew?’

‘Not everything. When Ser Beric left me and most of the Brotherhood to go North, he bid me return home to Starfall to explain it all. He didn’t expect ever to return. And he didn’t. He would not have her see him as he became. Now…’ Ned coughed a little. ‘How was he? At the end?’

Any trivial thoughts of clothes suddenly felt mean in Gendry’s mind. He clasped Ned’s shoulder. ‘He was brave and tireless. He shirked no duty, no danger. He was… exactly the man he’d ever been.’

Several thick tears fell from Ned’s eyes and he blinked furiously to remove them. ‘Thank you, old friend.’

‘I speak only the truth.’

Ned laughed now, more sincere than before. ’As ever! Bluntest fellow I’ve ever known, and I rode with the Brotherhood! Gods, when we have to truss ourselves up like this, I’ve half a mind to run back to them.’

Gendry grinned at that. This was his friend Ned, who he remembered and respect and admired. ‘If you do, let me know and I’ll keep you company.’

This was half a jest, bittersweet for it. He would not give up on the duty he had sworn to the people of Storm’s End and the Stormlands, nor to-

Ned sounded like he’d been punched in the stomach: ’Seven fucking hells, Arya!’

Gendry looked at him like he’d lost his mind. ‘What do you- seven fucking hells and all the rest.’

He was going to faint. After all the terrors and horrors and hardships, _now_ was when he was going to faint.

He'd never, _ever_ live this down.

Arya of House Stark and all the other names she’d been given, had arrived and he was going to faint. Or die. One of the two. Possibly both. He might faint, hit his head on something and _then_ die.

Or it had already happened and what he was seeing was a fever dream or the afterlife. Seemed more likely that this really happening.

He closed his eyes a moment, as though it might make sense of it all.

Lady Sansa had arrived with Sandor Clegane and Davos Seaworth, looking as regal and beautiful as she ever did, her red hair warm in the candlelight and her Stark-grey dress glittering. Behind them came _Arya_ Stark walking in on her own.

Gendry had known Arya since she was a small child. He knew her, he liked to think, about as well as anyone in the Seven Kingdoms or beyond. He would even admit if pressed, that he loved her with every shred of his being. Hells, he’d proposed marriage three times so far and intended to keep asking until she said Yes or gave him an actual _no_. He knew her better than _anyone_ in some respects. Better than Sansa or Jon or Bran, better than the Hound or Davos or any of the people who populated her life.

The sight of Arya Stark in a dress was the most unexpected thing he’d ever seen, and he’d _seen_ her in dresses before. The thought of the acorn dress made him chuckle even as he felt he’d been hit with his own hammer.

The dress was a deep, vibrant blue in the most southron style he’d ever seen her in. It was not as revealing as Reach fashion, but it was brighter and more form-fitting than Northern fashion. It showed some skin - more than usual - but would not be called improper by any but the sternest of septas. Though beautiful and well-made, the gown was not especially fussy or ornately decorated, which led Gendry to one, quite stunning conclusion:

Arya chose it for herself.

‘Who persuaded her to set her usual self aside for the night?’ Ned asked, a laugh bubbling in his throat.

Gendry did not answer him. His eyes followed Arya as she moved through the gathering and so he caught the moment she saw him in return. She smiled him and took her time getting to him - not entirely her choice, for many there desired an introduction or greeting. He watched, taking the time to regulate his breath and his blood, and quiet ignoring Ned altogether. The closer she got, the more detail he could see in her dress: the gold and silver threads woven through it, how the thin, smooth fabric slid across her skin as she moved-

‘Lord Baratheon.’

Arya had crept up on him. Not for the first time.

He bowed to her so formally that it became a jest. ’Lady Arya.’

‘You scrub up well, my lord.’

The scent of roses floated in the air around her and he wondered if he was indeed dreaming or dead. Still, he had to say something: ’So do you. I’d hardly believe you and the Knight of the Laughing Tree to be the same person. Except-‘

‘Except?’ She battered her eyelashes at him - also a jest - as he took her hand and kissed it, as any proper lord might greet a proper lady.

‘It’s _you_.’ He kept his eyes firmly set on her face, even as the dip in the blue enticed his gaze lower. Then, she saw Ned next to him, staring. ‘Ned.’

‘Lady Arya, you look… intoxicating like Arbor Gold.’

‘Fuck off, Ned.’

‘I am in earnest.’ He took her hand as soon as Gendry released it. ‘You are the most beautiful woman here this evening.’

‘Don’t let the Queen, or my sister, hear you say that. I’d hate to see you have your head lopped off for something you don’t mean.’

‘Oh, but-’

‘Arya, we should find something to eat. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten since the joust?’

‘Well, no-’

‘Come on.’ Gendry took her arm firmly in his and led her away.

‘What was that about?’

‘You were about to embarrass your friend.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Arya, just… just eat with me?’

‘Of course.’

He pulled out a chair for her at a table near the musicians. As he helped her into it and his ear brushed against her hair, he took his chance: ‘You _are_ the most beautiful woman here. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

This time, she did not tell him to fuck off but looked steadily at the tabletop. He sat beside her and waved over a serving woman to bring food and drink.

‘I’m… glad,’ Arya admitted. ‘You look… I think _you_ look beautiful.’

Gendry fought the urge to make several jokes or to argue about such a word being used on a man such as himself. ‘Thank you. This is new.’

She ran her fingers across the collar of his tunic. ‘It fits you very well. I expect you to receive any number of marriage offers from ambitious fathers of daughters.’

‘Arya, not this again.’

‘You should consider them.’

‘I asked a girl to marry me,’ he whispered hotly. ‘She said no.’

Arya waited while the serving woman set down mugs of beer and plates of meat before them. She picked at the food but did not eat. ‘She didn’t say no, she said _not yet_.’

‘Then when, milady?’

‘When I name you Queen of Love and Beauty.’

Gendry grabbed a chicken leg and began to tear at it with his teeth and did not reply.

‘People are looking at us,’ she hissed.

‘People are looking at _you_.’

‘No…’

‘Where did you get the dress?’ He dared to slide his knuckles along the wispy sleeve, feeling her taut muscle beneath. A deep breath.

‘Believe it or not, Brienne.’

‘Really?’ Reflexively, he looked around to find her. There was Brienne, also looking resplendent in her own way, listening as Ser Jaime Lannister told an animated story to a small gathering of Reach and Westerlands lords and ladies. ‘I must thank her later.’

‘This isn’t for _you_ , bull.’

‘No?’

‘I wanted to have something lovely for myself.’

‘As you should. As you now do. I would fill Storm’s End with lovely things for you if I thought you wanted them.’

‘Oh no, just on a special night like this.’ She leaned in and almost knocked over his beer with her elbow. ‘If you knew how much fucking fuss this was.’

‘How many times did you threaten to give up?’

’Three.’ Whether this was true or not, it was the number they usually settled on for these sorts of questions. ‘But really, Sansa and her ladies weren’t so bad.’

‘No?’

‘When I was a little girl, I saw the world as it treated women, and I assumed there was no power in beauty or softness or anything ladylike. I didn’t want to feel powerless, so… I chose a different path. And I am glad of it, but then I saw Sansa as she is now. How she _is_ powerful, how she’s brave and good and how men look at her now. Not just with lust or desire but respect. I admire that.’

Gendry wanted dearly to ask how she wanted men to look at her, but he hadn’t lost all sense at seeing her so- he caught her rose scent again.

‘I wanted to know what that feels like.’

‘If you don’t already know then I must have failed.’

‘You don’t count.’

‘I don’t?’

’No.’

‘Why not? Am I not man enough? Because we don’t have to stay here. I can take you back to my tent and-‘

Her laugh was more cackle than chime. ‘I didn’t mean that, but it’s not a bad idea.’

‘We cannot leave before the Queen arrives. Poor manners.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’

He let his hand drop below the table and squeezed her knee, causing her to jump. It wasn’t often he surprised her. ‘Perhaps, love. But you cannot distract me. What do you mean?’

‘I wanted to know if I can - Arya Horseface, Arya Underfoot - be as pretty as I am strong. For others to know it, as you do. Just to know what it feels like.’

’So far?’

She wriggled in her seat. ‘I have felt more comfortable. But… I do feel _pretty_.’

‘So you should.’

With some fanfare, the Queen was announced. She arrived flanked by her Hand, Tyrion Lannister, and Missandei of Naath. The gathering fell silent as she stood to make a speech.

‘Dear friends!’ She called out. The many jewels on her black and red dress sparkled as much as they clung close to her body. ‘How glad I am that we are all here. How glad to share meat and mead with you all. It is six moons now since the Seven Kingdoms were set right, since we stood together and said we are not seven, but one. Longer still since we stood together against death and said “no.” Although we have lost so many friends and family and remember them always, we live and we will make this world what we would wish it to be. Not only for ourselves but our children and theirs, and theirs… a country to last a thousand years and a thousand more.’

A roaring cheer shook the marquee.

‘I am grateful to our gracious host, Lady Hayford. You are the future we are working to secure.’

Lady Ermesande stood and curtsied to the Queen with only a hint of wobble.

‘For tonight, we will eat, drink and make merry. Tomorrow, our great knights will compete in the joust and archery. Then when our revelries are over… the future is ours.’

A cheer rose up: ’Long live the Dragon Queen!’

‘Long live Queen Daenerys!’

‘Long live the Queen!’

‘Long live King Jon!’

Silence then. Who had spoken?

Queen Daenerys’ shoulders drooped just a little, just a moment. ‘We live in hope that he will return to us on swiftest dragonwing. He had so hoped to be here.’

Nobody, not even Arya, knew exactly where Jon had gone.She grasped at Gendry’s hand, and he squeezed gently back.

‘I shall not speak longer,’ said Daenerys. ‘Eat, drink and rejoice!’

Applause and cheering followed and the Queen sank into her seat. Servers brought her food and drink and the music resumed.

Sansa approached after a moment. ‘Lord Gendry.’

‘Lady Sansa. You look very well this evening.’

‘You are kind. The Queen has a favour to ask you.’

Arya scowled. ‘What?’

‘She feels she cannot begin the dancing without Jon. She asked if you would be kind enough to do so.’

Dance. With Arya. In front of all these people. Gendry felt faint again, yet there was his own voice. ‘If the Queen wishes it and Arya agrees.’

‘If I absolutely must.’

Sansa then: ‘You must.’

‘Fine.’

They stood as if one being and moved out onto the floor. Silence fell again. Gendry took Arya’s hands in his own. ‘Shall we, milady?’

Almost every pair of eyes at the feast was on them. Some looked on with envy, others with curiosity or interest. Others looked in anger or bitterness… and more than a few looked on and began composing songs about Arya Stark and the Lord of Storm’s End.

The dance began.

 

*


	5. Many A Heart Is Aching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the super comments so far! I wanted to get a new chapter of this in before the new episode comes along to presumably smash it all up...
> 
> The title of this chapter is from 'After the Ball', a song from 1891 which has been covered a bunch of times (Nat King Cole, as usual, is the best IMO)... it's not exactly what this fic is about but it captures the bittersweet 'and now what?' of so many great parties.

The night wore on in the ways such nights usually did: guests got progressively drunker and so too either more violent or more affectionate as was their nature. The volume rose higher as voices turned from talking to shouting over each other - while others yet sought out quieter corners in which to whisper.

Lady Arya, in her finery, was much sought after for dancing. The lord with whom she’d opened the dancing was no less popular and before either of them knew it, several hours had passed and the musicians were weary enough to need a rest.

Both Gendry and Arya separately sought to catch their breaths and find the other, both without wishing anyone else to know what they were about.

Most of the gathering were deep in their cups and growing rowdy but even so, the deep boom of a voice rumbled through the marquee clear and loud: ’Arya Stark!’

Arya twirled, seeking the owner of such a voice. ’Tormund?’

‘Who else would I be?’

As there was nobody quite like the huge mass of Giantsbane, this was true, but in thin, south-friendly raiment rather than his characteristic furs and boots, he could almost have passed for someone else. His voice though, could not be denied.

She rushed to him as quickly as her dress allowed. ‘You’re here! Is Jon back? Is he well? Where is he?’

Tormund opened his arms to scoop her into a welcoming embrace but, inches from her, he froze like he’d stripped to nothing at the Fist of the First Men. ‘What are you _wearing_ , wolf girl?’

‘A dress.’

An eyebrow rose and remained there. ‘If you say so. You southerners!’

Any thoughts of costume were far from Arya’s concern. ‘What news of _Jon?’_

‘I’m very well, good of you to ask.’

She hit his arm. ‘Are you well, Tormund?’

‘I’m alive, so it’s a good day. But there was this-‘

She hit him again. ‘Where is _Jon_?’ She whirled around now to look at the high table. Daenerys was gone. Had she left for propriety, preference or Jon?

‘Take me to him, Tor-’

‘No, no. It’s not your time, wolfie.’

‘But-’

A shrug from Tormund, before he slung a heavy arm around her shoulders. ’He’s here, he’s alive, so it’s a good day. Now, where is the beer? And is _she_ here?’

‘She’s here.’ Arya turned to point at where Ser Brienne was talking with several fellow knights.

Tormund’s sigh at the vision of Brienne in an armour-like tunic the colour of sapphires and gold almost made her laugh. She was not cruel, and she did not laugh.

Gendry, fresh from being all-but-accosted by two drunker-than-proper young Westerlands ladies, caught Tormund in the kind of hug that comes from having faced death together more than once. ’Tormund!’

‘Little Lord Gendry!’ Tormund was so loud that Gendry flinched a little. ‘You look prettier than most of the women here.’

Arya did laugh now. ‘Put him down, Tormund. You don’t know where he’s been.’

Tormund’s eyebrow rose at her again. ‘I have a good idea.’

Separated now, Gendry took note of Tormund’s clothing. ’You look… unlike yourself, old friend.’

Tormund’s bright, keen blue eyes darted around at Brienne in her finery, at Arya’s dress, at Gendry’s doublet. ‘I’m not the only one, seems to me. Have we all gone mad? Is this was peace does to a man?’

Gendry shrugged. ’If looking like a fool is the price of peace, I’ll live with it.’

They each fell silent just a moment, each remembering their own people in their own ways.

Ahead, the musicians returned to their instruments, but their music was now more for mood than dancing.

‘Really Tormund, where have you _been_ dressed like that?’ Gendry asked.

Tormund rubbed his hands across his reddened face. ‘Further fucking south than any sane man would go. Nearly burnt my balls off. No ginger man should see that much sun.’

‘Is Jon well?’

‘He’s here,’ was all that Tormund would say. ’That’s all for tomorrow. I must have ale!’

With a mockery of a bow to them, Tormund left Arya and Gendry together.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, milady?’

‘Better than I expected.’

‘You seem… sought after.’

‘So do you. I see all those long eyelashes fluttering in your direction.’ Arya fought to sound unconcerned, but Gendry saw how her fingers tightened against Cat’s Paw on her belt.

‘I think I need some fresh air,’ he said, apparently from nowhere. ‘May I escort my lady to do the same? You look… warm.’

Arya took his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord. How thoughtful.’

They moved through the marquee to the exit in this mummers’ show of civility. Once outside in the cool night air, they let those masks fall.

Outside the feast itself, the tourney was a celebratory mass of drunken frolics, of vomiting and unconsciousness, of couplings that would be regretted come daybreak, of men and women seeking something beyond dark memories.

Gendry led Arya through the chaos around the marquee and tourney grounds until they reached a quiet place next to the water. Blackwater Rush was well named and the river was fast and powerful here. The moon was bright enough to illuminate their way to keep them safe and yet it was dark enough to provide them with the cover of darkness.

Arya stood, staring at the sparkling water, and shivered.

‘Are you _cold_? This far south? Stark, I’m disappointed.’

‘Of course I’m cold. This dress does not warm a person.’

‘I disagree.’

She turned, rubbing her bare arms with her hands. ‘You…’

He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over hers. It was much too long and pooled on the ground around her feet.

‘Did you… did you feel what you wanted to feel?’ He asked. ‘Powerful and beautiful, both at the same time?’

‘I don’t know.’ Arya sank down to sit on the cold, damp grass and took a moment to arrange the cloak so that they might both sit on its ends. ‘I didn’t hate it as I feared I might. I don’t think I’d like to live like this all the time. Too much like hard work and you can’t fight in a dress like this.’

‘Not successfully, no.’

‘Women’s clothing is clearly designed to keep them weak. You can’t run, can’t fight. Can’t breathe, in some cases.’

‘You’re thinking of the Westerlands girl I was dancing with.’ He couldn’t remember her name, but he’d remembered the unnatural feel of bone under silk and the way her waist pinched in a little too much.

‘The corset she wore looked painful.’

‘Aye.’

‘What did you think of your dancing partners?’

‘They all seemed nice.’

’Nice?’ Gods, there was a loaded question.

‘I liked the first one best.’ That earned him a smile. ‘What about all those men who found the courage to ask you to dance?’

‘I didn’t really think anything of them. It wasn’t as bad as I always feared as a child. I’d see women at feasts dancing with men they didn’t really want to dance with. Leering men and possessive men; aggressive men and flirtatious men. They didn’t have a choice, though. It was not having a choice that I hated. Not a choice in who to dance with, who to marry, who to fuck, whether to have their babes or not. No choice in where to live or where to go or what to do.’

Gendry waited to be sure she was finished before speaking. ‘You know… I would never - will never - make you do anything you don’t want to do.’

‘I know that.’ She leaned into him, her cold skin drawing heat from him even through layers of cloth. ‘I also know that it doesn’t matter. You’d still be my master in the eyes of the law.’

‘I would not!’

‘What justice would I have if you mistreated me?’

‘I would never.’

‘I _know that_. But what if you did?’

‘I expect that I wouldn’t live to see another dawn before receiving justice _from you_. That’s why you keep saying no?’

‘I’m no lady.’

‘I know you’re not a lady like they expect you to be. But Arya, you _are_ a highborn lady. Mayhaps you don’t see it, but I see it in the way you command a room, how you inspire your people to follow you. How you _care_ about your people. How you haven’t got a real clue how the small folk live.’

That earned him a smack to the chest.

‘I see it in the way you carry yourself with confidence and power. You’re not a lady _like they want_ but you are a lady. A brave, powerful, clever, caring, brilliant night-slaying, britches-wearing, sword-wielding lady.’ He took a breath, not used to making speeches like this. Indeed, the last time he had, he’d been drunk and it had not ended well. ‘You love like a lady in the songs, with all your heart.’

‘So you think.’

‘So I _know_.’ He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, trying to ignore how she felt with just a thin layer of cloth between him and her skin. He’d seen and touched everything before and yet, the dress… he forced himself to think of the point at hand. ‘I know you love me. Just as I love you, with all my heart, just like in the songs.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘No. I half wish I was. This might be less embarrassing.’

‘It isn’t. I do, but…’

‘Your list is done. The realm is as safe as it’s been for generations. What do you want, Arya? Not what do you feel you need to do, what you want.’

‘I don’t know. For a long time, all I had was the list, and the need to get home to Winterfell. Then I had my duty to my family.’

‘And now?’

‘I don’t know. I know I’ll joust tomorrow… I stopped making any kind of plans beyond the list a long time ago. Who plans for a future they don’t expect to see? That’s for someone else.’

‘What about dreams, then?’

‘Those were dangerous to have for the longest time.’

‘So, you don’t daydream about the best kind of future you _might_ have?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you dream of?’

‘I think you know and it’s cruel to ask me to voice it.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-‘

‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry I’m not what you wanted after all.’

He actually laughed at that. ‘Who told you that?’

‘You did, when you-’

‘And you call _me_ stupid. I’ve only ever wanted you to be yourself, but with me.’

‘But-‘

‘Your notions of what ladies are _meant_ to be have got in the way of a lot. That’s why… when I saw you dressed up so, I wondered… But you really should know by now that my clumsy way of speaking wasn’t about making you anything but yourself-‘

‘But-‘

‘Every time we speak about this, we end up arguing and the night is too nice for that. I take you as you, just as you take me as I am. That’s enough for me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, almost more into his shoulder than anything.

‘You don’t need to be.’

Moving as one, they settled back to lie down and gaze at the dark night above. Twinkling stars above promised something beyond the world they knew and made everything feel so much smaller and less significant than even moments before.

‘Arya?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Be kind to Ned.’

‘Ned? Why Ned?’

‘Because he’s your friend and halfway in love with you. It’ll hurt more when you say no.’

‘Say no to what?’

‘Don’t pretend to be less smart than you are, Arya Stark. Ned Dayne will almost certainly ask you to marry him before the tourney is over. He’s a good, kind man and deserves to be let down gently. As I was.’

‘As you were?’

‘Yes. Well, with less kissing, I’d hope. But that’s your choice.’

‘I didn’t know. Really-‘

‘I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m telling you now.’

‘What about all those girls who want to be the Lady of Storm’s End?’

‘It’s easier for me. I just don’t have to ask the fucking question.’

Arya took a deep breath and let it go very slowly. His fingers grasped her ribs slowly as she exhaled. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Aye, _milady?’_

‘Yes. I don’t want to have to start a new list.’

A laugh rumbled through his whole chest. ‘You don’t have to be jealous of anyone, Arya.’

‘No? I can think of at least _three_ -’

‘Shush, love. In all the ways that matter, I was taken a long time ago. Before I even knew it.’

She took in another breath, presumably to speak, but was interrupted by voices nearby. Loud, raucous, drunk and profane.

‘Fuck me, did you see that Stark girl?’ The sound of a bottle being shared around followed.

Arya moved to sit up, but Gendry’s arm kept her low and hidden.

‘You might want to speak more respectfully of the Lightbringer, lads. She’d gut you before you could blink.’

‘All I’m saying is that this is the first time she’s looked like a real woman. I tell you, I’d like to-‘

A new voice, one she recognised as Ser Donnel: ’This talk is unseemly.’

‘Ser, we didn’t mean-‘

‘Unseemly and pointless.’

‘Ser?’

Ser Donnel gave a hacking, phlegmatic chuckle. ’You can put a dog in a dress and the bitch still barks.’

It was all Gendry could do to hold Arya down. ‘Not now. Not here. In our own time.’

They listened to the laughing men continue to do so, and the sound faded as they continued along the river, away from Arya and Gendry.

For a long moment, she lay very still and very silent.

‘Arya?’

Silence, and then: ‘This is why I’ve never, ever wanted to be a fucking _lady.’_

‘He’s wrong. They’re all wrong.’

‘It doesn’t _matter_. As long as they’re men - supposedly - and I’m not, they get to spew shit like their mouths are arseholes. And they _will_ be.’

He held her again. ‘Do it right, Arya. Killing them now will be murder. You’re a killer, but you’re not a murderer.’

She took several long, deep breaths and eventually her iron grip on his wrist loosened. ‘This is why, Gendry. This is why I’ve never wanted to be a fucking lady.’

‘If it counts, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And you might not be a lady like any other, but you are one.’

‘I’ll be back in my britches and armour tomorrow.’

‘And you’ll still be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

‘You’re kind.’

‘I’m not kind. I’m honest.’

‘You’re beautiful too.’

‘Very funny.’

‘You are. And all those _girls_ thought so too. You’re a catch, Lord Baratheon.’

‘I’ve been caught already. And if you marry me, everyone will know it and they’ll leave me alone.’

‘Oh, so _that’s_ why you keep asking! Not for _me_ , but to be left alone!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ He played up the embarrassment for her entertainment, glad that a small sacrifice of dignity was enough to restore her mood.

‘Silly bull. They won’t leave you alone.’

‘No?’

‘You’ll still have that face and that body and that fucking hammer. Any wife would hardly matter.’ She poked lightly at his cheek and his chest.

He grabbed her finger and pressed the tip to his lips. ‘You’d just have to warn them all off.’

‘And whisk you away to Storm’s End where no lady dare set foot?’

’That’s a fine plan, milady.’

‘Do you really think I’m beautiful?’ Her eyes were large in the moonlight and the question held no arrogance. For a moment, they were back in a Riverlands wood and she was a girl telling him stories of home, where she’d been called many things but never beautiful.

‘Arya.’ He flexed his hands to dispel the fury in his blood. ‘Right now I want to kill anyone who ever made you feel otherwise for the liars they are.’

Her answer was to snuggle closer.

‘Cold?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, then.’ With just a little groan of stilled muscles now in action, Gendry stood and helped her up. ‘There’s a warm bed waiting for you.’

‘Unless it’s yours, I’m not interested.’

He swung his cloak back over his shoulders and pulled her under it with him as they made their way back towards the tourney ground.

‘You need to be up early for the joust. It’s already late.’

‘All my opponents will be in poor spirits or still half-drunk.’

‘All the better that you get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Gendry… I need someone to help me out of this fucking dress.’

His response was a loud, pained groan, only slightly for effect. ‘As you wish.’


	6. A Hard Night's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the lovely comments!

The morning was the kind of sun-soaked azure blue that could only bring pain to those with sore heads. High or low, the people in the stands were a subdued crowd as the joust resumed. The Queen sat in the royal pavilion, hidden from the sun by large red parasols. If King Jon was truly back, he had not shown himself.

Shining nearly-fresh-faced Ned Dayne took his opponent down with ease, amidst much cheering from the crowds who had taken to the dashing young blade. Sandor Clegane all but tore young Lolliston into digestible chunks, then it was Arya, the temporary Knight of the Laughing Tree once again.

Her next opponent was from House Mayhew, a minor house of the Riverlands. He was enormously tall, carrying his own lance as though it weighed no more than a darning needle.

He bowed graciously to her and his clear eyes sparkled with wit and mischief.

Arya considered him for a moment. ‘Not feeling the effects of a heavy night, ser?’

He shook his head, long dark hair swishing before he settled his helm upon his head. ’No. Good luck, Lady Arya.’

So much for a friendly chat first. Brienne handed her the helm and lance, and then it was time. Argella snorted beneath her, thick muscles moving with grace and power.

‘Ready?’ Arya asked the horse. She nudged her into play and the tilt began.

Arya broke a lance on his heavy armour but he did not shift in his seat. The second hit was his, but it glanced off her shoulder without effect. On the third, they were both starting to wonder how they would win - she had speed and agility, he had huge brute force.

It was a familiar conundrum for Arya. She settled her lance on her now-aching arm and set Argella to gallop once more.

And then, she was on her back in the sand. So much for _that_ idea.

Brienne’s voice sounded very far away. ‘Arya? Arya!’

‘I’m all right. What the- what happened?’

Brienne helped Arya to her feet. ’Ser Petyr’s lance caught your left side and knocked you clear off your horse.’

‘Well…’ Arya rolled her neck and felt for her balance before letting go of Brienne. ‘All right, then.’

The crowds were cheering. Arya pulled off her helm and tossed it aside before approaching the victor.

She bowed to him. ’Well done, ser.’

He returned the gesture. ’You also.’

She shrugged. ‘I was going to be unhorsed at some point. I’m happy to be in one piece afterwards.’

Arya gave a final wave to the crowd and walked gingerly towards her tent. She got only a few paces out of the tiltyard before Gendry was there at her side.

‘Are you hurt?’

’Only my pride.’

‘You did well to last as long as you did against him. He’s just been named Master-of-Arms at Riverrun.’

‘ _Now_ he tells me. Shall we-’ She stopped entirely and felt her lower jaw drop a little with surprise.

Ser Donnel Haigh stood just ahead, slumped of shoulder, fat of lip and bloodied of nose. He also appeared to be holding his right arm at a less than natural position. He glared at her but shrank back as Gendry came close.

‘My lady.’ Ser Donnel bowed as low as his injuries would allow. Arya and Gendry passed.

‘What happened to him?’ She whispered to Gendry.

He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Gendry…’

‘"Ours is the fury" is a nice set of House words, don’t you think?’

She took his arm and pulled him closer. ‘I don’t know whether to be pleased at your intervention on my behalf or annoyed you didn’t include me.’

‘Sometimes, Arya…’ They were at her tent now. He took her hand and kissed it like any knight might for a lady. ‘You’re not the only one defending your honour, my lady.’

He released her then and began to move away.

Arya reached back and caught his sleeve. ’Where are you going?’

‘I have things to do.’

‘What things?’

‘Things...’ he had to turn back to speak to her now ‘... that are for me to know and you to burn with curiosity over.’

‘I won’t!’

He moved quickly out of sight. She laughed a little and winced as she tried to move into the tent.

A bath was ready for her, steaming hot. She tried to get out of her armour alone but she was starting to feel the effects of her fall now that the shock was over, and she was forced to wait for Brienne, who was a few minutes behind.

’Did you see Ser Donnel?’ Brienne asked, unstrapping the gauntlets on Arya’s arms. ‘He looked like someone went at his face with a hammer.’

‘If he’d hit him with a hammer, he’d be dead.’

‘What do you know?’

Arya briefly recounted the story. Brienne was dismayed but hardly surprised.

‘Well then,’ she said after a moment and another piece of armour discarded. ‘I’m glad. He hadn’t the right to say that. Not about any woman. And you _are_ very beautiful, my lady.’

‘Brienne…’

‘No, I shall say it this time. I knew your lady mother. She was beautiful and graceful and she was fierce and proud. _You_ are as much your mother’s daughter as Lady Sansa. Differently so, but you are Catelyn Stark’s daughter and I am proud to know you and call you my friend.’

Scalding tears filled Arya’s eyes and though she might claim it was the shock of getting smashed off her horse, she could not. ‘We fought so much.’

‘She told me. She loved you dearly. She worried about you, knowing the world would not be kind to you. And it was not.’ Brienne removed the final piece of armour. ‘But what she did not know was that you would help remake the world. You and I have spent our lives thus far being made to feel ugly and unwomanly… but the young girls who saw you today will remember this day. The children who hear about the Night-slayer won’t believe the lie that girls are only capable of needlework and child-bearing. They will know, all of them, that women can be brave, strong and true, because of you.’

‘And Ser Brienne of Tarth, the first woman knight in the Seven Kingdoms.’

‘One day, you and I will be only stories… but we will be to future children what Nymeria and Visenya were to us.’

Arya blinked away her tears. ‘I really need that bath.’

Brienne smiled and gripped Arya’s fingers briefly. ‘I will stand guard.’

‘Don’t you have anywhere better to be?’

‘Not for now.’

 

*

 

After a hot bath that went some way to soothing Arya’s aches and pains, she dressed in her customary britches, shirt and jerkin and went in search of Gendry. This time, she took herself directly to the forge and found a new crowd gathered around him.

Did he even realise how people were drawn to him? She smiled and tucked herself into the crowd where nobody would notice her.

He was working on something very small and delicate that she could not see from her less-than-ideal place in the group. Hunched over, he worked for a minute more.

A voice called from across the smithy. ’Lord Gendry?’

Gendry looked up, blinking into the light. ’Yes?’

‘Might you spare a moment to give your expert opinion, my lord?’

She watched Gendry slide the unseen whatever from the anvil into a small leather pouch that he tucked into his apron pocket, then make his way over to the other smith. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment, both glancing at the sword currently heating in the forge.

With a nod, Gendry slipped on heavy leather blacksmith’s gloves, grabbed a hammer from the rack and pulled the sword out of the flames. It was almost white hot and Gendry spoke to the smith as he laid it on an anvil and with an almighty whack, brought the hammer down upon it once, twice, three times.

The crowd oohed and ahhed at the sight of Lord Baratheon hard at work. Arya paid them no mind except to keep her own reactions under control. He continued to talk to the other smith, apparently explaining his method, as he sent the sword into a bucket of water that hissed and spat at the introduction of hot metal. He withdrew it again, looked it over and with a satisfied grin, handed it over to the other smith.

That was enough for the crowd who, satisfied, dispersed into the rest of the tourney grounds.Arya remained, still captivated by the sight of Gendry moving around the smithy with the respect and admiration of the other smiths for his skills over his title or war deeds.

He glanced up and saw her waiting by the anvil where he’d been working before the interruption. He pointedly continued his conversation with another smith before joining her.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better for a hot bath. I’ll likely be a single Stark-shaped bruise tomorrow. What are you working on?’

‘Oh, that.’ He pulled the pouch out of his pocket. ‘It’s finished.’

With warm, blackened fingers, he took her right hand and opened it up, palm upwards, the better to drop the pouch into her grip.

‘What is it?’

‘Look and see.’

She did. On a chain of tiny freshly-forged steel links, hung a dagger-in-miniature much like the Valyrian steel that stayed at Arya’s side and with which she had slain the Night King. ‘You made this?’

‘I did.’

‘For me?’

‘Who else am I making presents for, milady?’

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly for a moment. ‘Whoever you want.’

‘It’s for _you_ , Arya.’

She ran her finger along the blade, no more than an inch long but still carefully crafted. ’Is it sharp enough to do any damage?’

‘What do you think?’

‘If I stick ‘em hard enough with it… it’s beautiful work, Gendry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How long have you been working on it?’

‘A while. I wanted to mark your first tourney somehow.’

‘First?’ She closed her hand around the necklace. ‘You think I’m going to compete again?’

Gendry now closed his hands around hers. ’If you want to.’

‘It’s quite the favour to carry with me.’

‘Does that mean I get my cuff back? Because it’s really more useful than decora-‘

‘No.’ Her following laugh was high and open in a way Arya did not usually find. ‘You gave it to me; it’s mine now.’

As so often, Gendry weighed up the benefits of arguing and chose not to bother this time. ‘As you wish, milady. Do you want me to help you put this on?’

With a nod, Arya allowed him to open her hand and take the necklace from it. With care and gentleness not usually seen from hammer-wielding smiths or mighty warriors, Gendry draped it around her neck and with almost-a-minimum of fingers brushing soft skin, fastened it securely.

‘How does it look?’ She turned back to face him, fluttering her eyelashes in a parody of an alluring young maiden.

‘Like it belongs there.’

‘Have you ever made anything so… so… small? Intricate?’

‘Tried a few times.’ He looked at a point somewhere behind her head, which usually meant he was omitting something he felt embarrassing. ‘Nothing came of it.’

‘It’s very good.’

‘I took advantage of a jeweller in King’s Landing’s generosity. He said he’d be happy to teach me some things and I took him at his word.’

‘It must be nice to make something rather than destroy it.’

‘It is, milady.’ He reached out to touch the little dagger with the tips of his fingers, then remembered they were in the forge and retreated instantly. ‘Are you…’

‘Yes?’

He coughed. ‘Have you seen your brother yet?’

Arya’s grip on Needle tightened quite without her realising it. ‘No. I decided that I would wait to be summoned.’

‘You sound annoyed.’

‘I don’t mean to! I just want to see for myself that he’s all right.’

‘You will soon, I’m sure. Now, do you want to see the rest of the joust with me?’

‘If we can get some ale on the way.’

 

*

 

Arya and Gendry settled into a back corner of the royal pavilion where they could observe, rather than be observed by, the rest of the occupants.

‘The Queen seems more settled today,’ Gendry whispered to Arya. ‘Jon must be all right.’

Arya nodded tightly and gripped at her mug of ale. ‘Aye.’

The joust had moved along while they were gone and it was now down to just four knights.

‘Sansa!’ Arya hissed along the bench.

Sansa, too far away for polite conversation, sighed and came over to return her sister’s attention. ‘Yes?’

‘What happened to Clegane?’

‘Ser Petyr of House Mayhew.’

‘Ah.’ Arya hooted. ‘He got taken out by the same fellow as _me_. He’ll never live it down!’

‘You’ll never let him live it down, you mean.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Just a bit bruised.’

‘You did very well. A credit to House Stark.’

Arya flushed red, despite herself. ‘Thank you. Have _you_ seen Jon?’

‘Just briefly this morning. He said he’ll be at the feast this evening.’

‘Oh fuck, does that mean I have to be there?’

‘You already had to be there. And really, is it so- what is that?’ Sansa tapped at the dagger at Arya’s throat.

‘Oh, it’s-‘ she almost said “nothing” to make Sansa go away, but the word stuck in her throat. ‘Gendry made it. Isn’t it fine?’

‘It’s very fine.’ Sansa’s gaze flickered up to Gendry a moment. ‘Arya, may I speak with you a moment?’

She knew that tone. ‘It’s almost time for Ned’s tilt-‘

‘Now.’

‘Fine. Here will do.’

‘I would rather speak with you in private.’

‘There's no privacy here. I’m sure you can say whatever it is in front of Gendry.’

‘I’m sure I may, but perhaps I would prefer not to cause any embarrassment to _Lord Baratheon_.’

‘Oh for fu- all this lording is such utter bollocks.’

‘Arya!’

‘Fine, fine.’ Arya allowed Sansa to drag her out of the pavilion and to a quiet corner nearby.

‘Arya…’ Sansa took a calming breath. ‘You cannot accept such gifts without some kind of understanding.’

‘Why, because it’s _improper_?’

‘No! Because it’s _fucking cruel_.’

Hearing Sansa’s quiet curse chilled Arya more than any raised voice might. ‘It’s not- I mean, I- He knows-‘

‘Gendry is the most patient and understanding young man in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. It’s still unkind to string him along as you do.’

‘I’m not! He knows better than _anyone_ how I feel.’

‘Which is, Arya? All any of us sees is that you won’t marry anyone but you’re more than content to hang around whatever forge he’s in; that you’ll dance with him and-‘

‘I danced with _lots_ of people last night. I didn’t even stab anyone.’

‘Arya…’ Sansa took another calming breath and smoothed the front of her dress with almost-trembling hands. ‘I know you don’t mean any harm. Which is a strange thing to say about an assassin.’

‘Former assassin.’

‘Yes, yes. I know you are kind and caring and I know that you love that boy, as you should. He’s a dear and good person. But you cannot… It’s not kind to act as if he belongs to you without actually saying the proper words. He needs to secure-‘

‘You don’t know anything,’ Arya spat, feeling every scrap of childhood, childish rage surge back from wherever she’d locked it away. ‘You’re right that I love him, with all my heart. And he knows that I can’t be some fucking lady.’

‘And what am I?’ Sansa’s cool blue eyes fixed on Arya so hard that the younger Stark sister actually squirmed. ‘Just some _fucking_ lady?’

‘No, I mean… it’s complicated.’

‘Of course it is. Everything is complicated.’ Sansa flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘I know you’ll do whatever you want because you always do. I’m really just asking you to be kind to him. He deserves that above all things.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s really a very beautiful necklace. I would- what’s it like to have someone so devoted to you?’

For a moment they stared, each trying to feel what the other felt. Arya clutched at the necklace and felt the dagger-point pierce her skin. She ignored it.

‘It’s… I don’t know, but I hope you get to feel that way one day. Soon. You deserve it.’ Quite without warning or expecting it herself, Arya darted forward to embrace her sister. ‘I don’t mean to be unkind.’

‘I know. Have you considered that you’re making things more complicated than necessary? Come - we don’t want to miss your friend Ned’s next match.’

They returned to the pavilion quietly, arm in arm.

‘Everything all right?’ Gendry murmured as Arya settled back into her seat. She squeezed his hand and then did not let go. He looked surprised at this public demonstration of affection, no matter how subtle. The warm smile set on his lips as he lifted his mug of ale caused her heart to clench.

It was possible, she realised, that Sansa was fucking right.

 

*

 

The final joust came down to golden Ned Dayne and Ser Petyr. It was, Arya thought, heartening that if she was going to be knocked out of a joust, it would be by one of the final men standing. It was late in the day - any later and this would’ve been held until the next day.

The difference between the two men was almost as sharp as it had been when Arya jousted, except Ned had been training his entire life rather than six moons. He did not seem at all bothered or nervous as he waved to the crowds. The smallfolk had taken Ned entirely to their hearts and more than one girl swooned at sight of him.

The two knights were, in skill if not size, well-matched. They broke six lances a-piece before even tiring.

Arya leaned forward in her seat, feet rocking back and forth with tension and nerves. Her ale was forgotten and as the next tilt began, she all but launched out of her seat.

And then, it was over. Ned’s lance caught Ser Petyr’s shoulder at just the point where the plates of armour left him exposed. Ser Petyr was unbalanced by the shock and pain and could not recover quickly enough before sliding from the saddle.

The cheers and applause were truly deafening and lasted for minutes as Ned rode a circuit of the tiltyard, bowed to his queen and continue around again. He shook hands with Ser Petyr, who accepted defeat with grace and good humour.

Queen Daenerys greeted him with his victor’s purse and a kiss to his cheek. And then, there was the small matter of a flower crown.

The crown was simple enough: white daisies and purple roses. Ned took it gently in his hands and walked into the pavilion with great purpose.

He knelt before Arya Stark and placed the flowers in her lap.

*

 


	7. Another Fine Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the super comments - I haven't had a chance to respond yet, but I will!
> 
> Now... in this version of events, as you can probably guess, there was no genocide in King's Landing. In this version of events, everything since the Long Night is different. Significantly, Arya got in and sorted out Cersei in time to create a meaningful surrender and whatever else happened was not enough to tip any Targaryens into madness. That's not to say that all went well or all are happy (seriously, what's wrong with Jon?) but it wasn't quite what went down in the show.

While many of the small folk did not see what was occurring, everyone in and near the royal pavilion did, and the collective gasp was sharp. The collective held breath was powerful in its silence. Nobody made a sound.

Before Arya or Ned could react, Gendry stood. He patted Ned’s shoulder softly, then walked out and away. He moved without aggression or anger, his face set into neutrality and his stride purposeful.

While there had long been whisperings about Arya and the Storm Lord, none had ever been quite confirmed. Whisperings remained more like theories of what might be than gossip of what was. A few people knew better, but not even Sansa knew everything.

Fortunately for Arya, the few people who had any idea of the truth were in the royal pavilion and had overdeveloped emotional repression skills. As such, nobody reacted outwardly.

At least in this, the Tourney of the Dawn was an improvement over that at Harrenhal.

 

*

 

Of all the feelings Arya of House Stark had ever experienced, the one she liked least was shame. It burned at her from the inside out.

It was shame that made her cheeks redden. She couldn’t bear to look at Gendry next to her, but she could feel how he’d tensed before leaving. She could hardly look at Ned’s shining purple eyes looking up at her. Across the way, Sansa was obviously caught between concern and ‘I told you so’.

There were courtesies to deal with, lest she make things ever worse. ’Thank you, Ned.’

She pointedly did not place the crown atop her head, but left it on her lap.

Ned, for his part, clearly understood that whatever his dream may have been of this moment, it was not coming true and he stood up quickly.

Arya couldn’t help the feeling that she’d done this to a young man before. That time had all but ripped her heart out of her chest. This time, she felt deeply for Ned, but not herself.

Gendry had been right. And he was right that she should be kind.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘We have been through much together.’

Ned understood and spoke, loudly enough to be heard by the others, ‘I could think of nobody who at once deserves the title and yet who would hit me in the face for doing it.’

She grinned, part-relief and part-show. ‘Just because I haven’t yet doesn’t mean I won’t.’

‘I knew if I named the Queen without King Jon here, it would be seen as an insult to him.’ Ned again spoke clearly enough to be heard by all nearby. ‘And I wouldn’t… I couldn’t name another lady unless I was to ask for her hand… Times such as this I wished for a sister and realised that indeed I did. And here you are.’

A couple of tears shone in Ned’s eyes. He reached out to squeeze her hands. In a whisper, he added: ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You don’t need to apologise. I’m sorry I can’t-‘

‘I should’ve thought more on it. Talked to you about it. A lot has changed since we were children in the Brotherhood.’

‘Yes. And yet you are still my dear friend and…’ Arya stood on tiptoes to kiss Ned’s cheek. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are the loveliest lady here.’

Now Arya did thump his arm. ‘Shut up, idiot!’

He laughed loud and hearty and those pretending not to be listening relaxed at last.

Sansa rose up with her usual grace. ‘Arya, come and show the Queen and I your beautiful crown.’

Arya did just that, and Ned moved away to be congratulated for his victory by others.

Queen Daenerys’ eyes were soft and her expression understanding as Arya offered up the crown for her to see.

‘I am glad Ser Edric didn’t come to me,’ she said. ‘Enough gossip is already circulating since Jon left.’

‘Is he well?’

‘He’ll be at the feast later.’

‘Then so will I.’

‘You don’t need to stay here for me, Arya,’ said Daenerys. ‘Perhaps you ought to head to where you’re needed.’

Arya needed no more dismissal than that, but at least remembered not to break into a run.

 

*

 

Flowers still in hand, Arya walked as quickly as she could to reach the forge. There was no question Gendry would have gone directly there and so it proved: he was already in a leather apron beating seven hells from a breastplate big enough for Brienne.

She watched for a moment, having always loved seeing him at work. There was something grand about watching someone at work for which they were suited, but she had never been quite so entranced by anyone. Ordinarily she might watch a while undetected, but she allowed herself to be seen.

Gendry did see her and although he hesitated a moment before bringing his hammer down again, he did not stop. Instead, he caught her eye and shook his head slightly before continuing the barrage against the unsuspecting metal.

Boiling shame threatened to spill out of her throat, but she took the hint and left the forge. For a moment, Arya Stark had no idea to do. It was an unfamiliar and deeply horrifying idea to someone who had moved and lived with purpose for as long as she could.

The flowers were soft and fragile under her fingers and it occurred to her that she ought to at least preserve this compliment. She made her way to her tent, the better to keep them safe.

Was it all the fault of the dress? Had it been anyone else, she might have assumed so, but Ned had been her friend for a long time. Was the dress the thing to tip him from friendship to near-as-makes-no-difference _proposing marriage_?

If so, she was going to burn the fucking thing. She was going to build a pyre in the centre of the tourney ground and invite everyone to watch her send that wretched garment to ashes.

The determination lasted all the way to her tent, until putting the flower crown where it was least likely to get crushed and all the way until she had the dress in her hands.

Her hands gripped, ready to tear it apart on command. The fabric was soft and flowing under her fingertips and now the memory was not of lords and knights leering or staring, nor even of Ser Donnel’s hateful words. Rather, she thought of Gendry: how he had looked ready to faint at sight of her, but how a dress had not truly changed anything about how he felt about her.

Gendry liked her dress - he had made that clear in a dozen ways - but he loved her. The dress was an occasional garnish but to him, she was no more beautiful or worthy of his love in it than out of it. He would’ve lived the rest of his life without seeing her in a dress and loved her no less for it.

Arya slumped onto her temporary bed and winced at the creak it made. She kicked off her boots and curled into a ball. As a little girl, she’d done this in her big Winterfell bed with Nymeria curled around her. She was never cold, she was never alone even when it felt like nobody understood or saw who she was.

She hoped that wherever Nymeria was, she was happy with her pack. Would Nymeria have had pups by now? Was it even possible for her to mate with ordinary wolves? Certainly there were no direwolves seen since the five Stark pups found the day her father executed a Night’s Watch deserter, and the only living male was Nymeria’s own brother Ghost. Arya hoped that Nymeria had found a mate and that even if her babies were not full direwolves, they were mighty successors to a noble breed.

She had so wanted to be like Nymeria, once. The Rhoynar princess _and_ the wolf. She’d been so young when the world fell apart that she’d not even had a chance to consider whether she might one day want to love and be loved.

The dress slipped through her fingers and hit the floor. No, she was not being honest. She had started to consider the possibility of loving and being loved, before the world went to hell all over again. By the time she had a moment to think about it again, too much had changed and she resigned herself to a life lived quite alone.

Except, she had not. That was the story she told herself, but from the moment she saw him ride into Winterfell, Gendry had been a consistent presence in her life. Even after she said _no_. Even after she emerged from the Red Keep with a bloodied dagger as the bells of King’s Landing rang to welcome the Dragon Queen through the gates.

Gendry had spent every day since his admittedly-disastrous proposal demonstrating the truth of his later explanation that he’d used the wrong words through being drunk and overwhelmed rather than secretly wishing her to be a soft lady in silks who submitted to him at all times.

In turn, Arya had spent that time trying to prove that her _no_ was not the same as _I don’t love you_. They were neither inclined to great public demonstrations of love and both would prefer to avoid whispers, so they kept their affections away from the rest of the curious world. It had worked so well, for many moons.

She picked up the dress, shook it out and put it back where it belonged. It was no fault of the dress. Someone was going to come along and disrupt their quietly perfect life. If it wasn’t Ned Dayne publicly handing her some flowers - and actually, was that the worst possibility? - then it would’ve been a proposal from someone Jon felt unable to turn down on her behalf (that such was still in his gift after everything made her seethe) or it would’ve been pressure on Gendry to find a suitable wife.

There were ways to ensure she never married, but none of them involved being able to remain with Gendry, short of causing a scandal that risked the tentative, fragile peace in the kingdoms.

Logically, Arya realised that marrying Gendry and being Lady of Storm’s End was the only way in which she had a chance of freedom and keeping those she loved close to her.

So, she just had to wait for him to calm down long enough to talk to. Arya knew him well enough to know that this might take quite some time.

Sleep would pass time. The world would be different on waking. She repeated that in her mind over and over before sleep came and still didn’t believe it.


	8. The Power of Small Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks so much for the lovely comments so far!
> 
> I've really tried with this to be true to the characters and respect the world that they operate in... but also to not throw Arya's firmly held beliefs about herself under the bus in the name of easy romance. I don't think any option is actually ideal for her within the constraints of the society she lives in, but there is *one* that sucks the least and which actually might not require her to sacrifice her sense of self.
> 
> That said, of 14,000,605 futures, you only need to find the right one.

Arya awoke, as she so often did, with a startling sense of danger. She could hear a shuffling outside her tent - someone pacing. She took a moment to look around and confirm to herself that the nightmares were either untrue or long gone and that all was well. 

With a few deep breaths, Arya calmed herself down from the terrors that stalked any sleep deep enough to allow for dreaming.

She could have called out to whoever it was, but instead got up and went to the door of her tent and poked her head out. Immediately, her heart sank as she saw it was not Gendry, but Podrick Payne. The sun was still high - she had not slept very long.

‘Lady Arya!’ He jumped, caught by surprise, and immediately moved his gaze away from her loosened jerkin, although no skin was exposed.

‘Pod?’

He stared at a point above her head. ’I offered to fetch you.’

‘Fetch me? For what purpose?’

‘The King, I mean. He asked if you had some time for me.’

She tugged her jerkin back into place and laced it up. ‘I certainly do.’

Pod held an arm out to escort her.

With a devilish grin, she walked past him on her own. ‘Come along, Pod.’

 

*

 

The ‘Royal Tent’ was actually a set of interconnecting tents where the King and Queen could greet visitors, entertain and rest. Leaving Pod behind, Arya breezed past the first set of guards into the receiving room and gave the next set the courtesy of pausing before entering the more private sitting room where her brother-cousin waited.

‘Jon!’

Since they were children, Jon’s face lit up at sight of his little sister and this was no exception. Yet, he had lost a lot of weight on his travels south and dark circles weighed down his weary eyes. Like Tormund, his pale skin had not endured well but he was at least more tanned than reddened.

Arya launched herself at him and Jon was at least quick and strong enough still to catch her.

‘Are you well?’ she asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘I’m better than I was.’

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Eventually. Almost.’

‘What now?’

He returned her to her own feet. ‘I get on with living, I suppose.’

‘What was it like? What happened?’

‘I found the Tower of Joy, just like the letters said.’ Jon moved away, almost certainly to hide whatever was written across his face. ‘A pile of rubble and a set of weathered cairns. Hardly any different from the land itself. You could ride past it a hundred times and never know what happened there.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘You were gone for weeks.’

‘I stayed down there a bit, then I went to Summerhall.’

Arya felt her eyes widen to saucers. ’Summerhall? What’s it like?’

‘Ruins.’ He barked out a harsh, humourless laugh. ‘It’s… it’s all ruins, Arya. All my life is _ruins_. Ruins and lies.’

‘No, it isn’t! You’re alive and… and you have a wife who loves you and a throne-‘

‘I don’t want it,’ he barked. ‘Sorry. I just… I didn’t ever want any of that.’

‘You don’t want…’ she trailed off, not wanting to ask about his feelings for the queen when she might hear. ‘You don’t want to be a king?’

‘I didn’t want to be lord commander. I didn’t want to be a lord. I didn’t want to be King in the North. I didn’t want to be King of Seven fucking Kingdoms. I’m supposed to be the bastard son of Ned Stark living a quiet life on the Wall.’

Arya watched Jon pace slowly before falling into a red silk-covered chair. Scruffy from his travels, he looked out of place in the sumptuous royal tent. She could empathise, at least.

‘Gendry was meant to live a quiet life. At the Wall or in a forge. And you made him one of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms. He’s doing all right.’

‘I’m not Gendry.’

‘That much I knew already, thank you. Why are you feeling sorry for yourself?’

‘I’m not _feeling sorry_ for myself!’

Arya faintly knew she had used the wrong words but in favour of breaking his dark mood, pressed on anyway: ’Looks like it. You think any of us are especially happy with what we have? Nobody who lived through this is really _well_. We’re all just… doing our best to recover.’

Arya also knew she was talking more about herself, and perhaps letting her own stresses out on her brother, but it was too late. ‘You think I’m happy with people staring at me? Whispering about me? Knowing that it’s just a matter of time before you try and sell me off to the highest bidder-‘

‘You know I wouldn’t do that!’

‘You say that now, but I know how it is.’

‘Arya-‘

‘You think Sansa is happy? Warden of the North was never her dream. She just wanted a lovely lord to marry and have lovely babies with and live a quiet, comfortable life. She got none of that and plenty of the opposite. What about Bran, for that matter, who isn’t even really Bran anymore? Or your own Queen? She has the kingdoms her family lost, but she knows many people hate her on principle for being _foreign_ and a Targaryen. She knows the rest fear her more than love her. She knows she has all of this on your… what’s the word I mean? I mean… she has this because _you_ said so. If you wanted, you could depose her tomorrow and almost nobody would even try to stop you.’

‘I wouldn't-'

‘Of course you wouldn’t. But I don’t suppose it’s nice to feel like everything you fought and suffered and lost friends for depends entirely on the honour of one man. Who probably doesn’t even love you.’

‘I love her!’ he yelled, moved to high emotion for the first time. ‘Of course I do. But she’s… she’s also my _aunt_ and nobody seems to be bothered about that except for me.’

‘I think people don’t care as long as it means there’s peace for a few years. Not like you’re the Lannister twins. And it’s not like you grew up together is it? It’s not… People care more about peace now. And you love who you love.’

He cracked a faint smile then and leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m just tired. So tired.’

‘Do you have nightmares too?’

He snapped his head up so faster Arya’s own neck ached in sympathy. ’Do _you_?’

‘Of course. If it’s not the Night King’s fingers at my throat, it’s seeing Father’s head separate from his body, even though Yoren made certain I didn’t see it in truth. Or it’s Sansa surrounded by lions, or you stranded beyond the wall, or Bran falling. Or Rickon… I sometimes see Robb and Grey Wind. But I don’t dream that as often as when it first happened. Sometimes I dream of Mother, brought back to life, but only a half-life. Like Ser Beric but even more wrong. And sometimes I dream of Gendry dying in front of me. In all sorts of ways. I was sleeping just now and I dreamt that we didn’t liberate King’s Landing as we did, but instead, the whole city burned around me. I dreamt of a million people dead and dying. I think everyone we know has nightmares. So Jon, _do_ you have nightmares?’

‘Sounds like we’re having some of the same nightmares.’

‘If you’re that tired, mayhaps you aren’t thinking right. You used to be awful as a boy if you had to get up earlier than usual.’

‘I was not.’

‘Robb used to say-’ she choked a little as her throat thickened with unshed sadness. ‘He used to say you were like a bear with a sore head.’

Jon chuckled lightly. ‘Aye, he did. He was right. Course he was right. What do we do, then? Take up the milk of the poppy habit? Dreamwine? Can’t say either sound good.’

‘Talk to your queen. Or someone.’

‘Do _you_ talk to anyone?’

‘Sansa sometimes. Gendry, mostly.’

He reached out to take her hand. ’I heard about what happened earlier. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, it could have been worse. Ned took it well.’

‘Aye, I heard that too. Not quite what happened to my parents. I’m glad. Dany said Gendry walked away. Is he- I mean, did you-‘

‘He’ll find me when he’s ready.’

‘And if he’s not?’

Arya shrugged with much more ease than she felt. ‘All will be well.’

‘He isn’t who I’d pick for you.’

‘Oh? Who _would_ you pick?’

Jon took this question seriously. He blinked several times, opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind and thought a little more. ‘Well, I don’t know. Someone more- I don’t know.’

‘There isn’t anyone who fits.’

‘Ned Dayne?’ he teased.

‘Oh, I’d scare Ned to death within a year. No, there’s only one person stubborn and brave and stupid enough to love someone like me.’

‘It’s not stupid to love you, Arya.’

‘Mayhaps. But we were talking about you. What will you do?’

‘I’ll get some sleep. I might even catch some before this evening’s feast.’

‘I hope you do. You look like shit.’

‘Hey! Have you forgotten I’m the king?’

Her grin was deliberately cheeky. ‘No.’

‘Go away and let me sleep.’

‘Of course, _Your Grace_.’ She curtsied very poorly, even by her own standards.

He rolled his eyes but reached out to swat at her arm as she left, feeling rather better than she had upon entering. Jon wasn’t exactly well but he might be given enough time - just like everyone else.

 

*

 

Arya had been determined not to seek Gendry… but it was not her fault she had to pass the smithy due to an entirely innocent mistake making a wrong turn through the tourney grounds. She purposely did not look in to see if he was there, but as he wasn’t, there was no harm done.

There was still plenty of time before the evening’s feast - for which she was making absolutely no effort - and nobody with whom to pass time. Sparring might have been nice, but Brienne was elsewhere and there were few men willing to spar with the Nightslayer. Wandering was also not likely, given how every single person was staring at her as if she had answers to the raging gossip written on her forehead.

She returned to her tent, thinking perhaps to start packing her things to leave in the morning. It might be well to leave very early and get a head start back home. As her fingertips brushed against the canvas door, Arya paused. Someone was inside.

‘It’s just me.’

She forced all her training down. Gendry. With a deep breath, she entered. He was sitting on her bed, feet propped up on a box. They remained as they were for a moment, trying to assess the other.

‘I just went to see Jon,’ she said to kill a little more time before having the harder conversation, the one which might end badly for her.

‘Is he well?’

She shrugged. ‘Not really, but he’s alive and here, so…’

He nodded and did not speak further.

‘You told me,’ Arya blurted out quite without thinking. ‘You told me about Ned and I didn’t take you seriously and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-‘

‘I know that.’

‘But I didn't-'

‘Sansa came to find me. She wanted me to hear what happened after I left from a reliable source.’

‘So you know I’m not-‘

‘I know you were kind to him, as I asked. I know he wove a tale about treating you as a sister.’

‘Yes. Did you really think I’d do anything else?’

‘I don’t know, Arya. I know that you had a chance to accept a proper lord who knows what he’s about.’

‘Ned is no more a proper lord than you or I! He grew up with Beric and the Brotherhood.’

‘But _he’s_ the legitimate lord of Starfall. He was raised to it. He’s not rough or stupid or oafish like I am.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re legitimate.’

‘I am _now_.’

‘Now is all that matters.’

‘See, this is how I _know_ you’re truly highborn. You’ve no idea what it’s like to grow up being told by _everyone_ that your very existence makes you beastly and unclean and tarnished and whatever other polite words there are for it. I know how lucky I am and I know how much has changed, but nothing can undo that. Compared to Ned Dayne, I’m-‘

‘Perfect. You’re _perfect_. I mean, for _me_ , not anyone else. You’re not rough or stupid or oafish. You’re kind and brave and strong and sometimes even quite funny.’

‘You flatter me, milady.’

‘I didn’t know it still bothered you so much.’

‘Nor did I. Until Ned gave you those fucking flowers.’

‘I’m sorry for that.’

‘Not your fault. As you’ve said many a time, a lady hasn’t any power in these matters.’

‘Except to say no. Which I did.’

‘And why did you do that?’

‘You know why.’

‘Do I?’

‘If I won’t marry _you_ , I certainly won’t marry anyone else. If I could marry anyone, it would be you. Those are my choices. You, or nobody. And Sansa made me realise that isn’t much of a choice either. She told me I was being cruel and she was right. I hate when Sansa’s right.’

‘Being cruel?’ His brow furrowed deep, confused at her words. ‘When were you cruel?’

‘For saying no to you, but still keeping you anyway.’

‘That’s not cruel, that’s…’ he paused, looking for the right word. ‘That’s the best choice we have. Isn’t it?’

‘I thought so. But she’s right. As long as we’re not… the rest of the world doesn’t know I belong with you and you belong with me. They don’t know that we’re… a set.’

‘What are you saying? It’s been a very long day and I’m tired and I just came here to tell you that whatever you decide is all right by me. You can marry Ned Dayne and I’ll find a way to be all right with it… whatever you decide is fine by me. But decide.’

‘I have decided.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes.’ She paused, trying to find the words. White and purple flowers caught her eye and she reached out for the crown and without preamble, knelt down in front of Gendry and placed it onto his head, nestled on dark hair. ‘I told you last night that I would marry you when I named you Queen of Love and Beauty. I was joking then, trying to avoid answering the question.’

He reached up and took the crown from his head and moved it to hers. ‘Suits you better.’

‘If you wanted to ask me again, how would you do it?’ She stared down at his hands as he twined his fingers with her own.

‘Marry me, milady. Be my family.’ His voice was a little tighter than normal, but his gaze didn’t leave her face for a moment.

‘That’s it?’

‘Aye.’

She brought their tangled hands up and pressed her lips against his skin. ‘You taste of smoke.’

‘I’ll probably always taste of smoke.’

‘Good. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

‘So… you’re going to marry me? Me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’ At that, Gendry wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him. The momentum sent them down onto the bed, but neither moved to correct it.

His breath was warm against her ear and she felt his words rumble in his chest as much as she heard his voice: ’What changed your mind?’

‘Would you believe it if I told you it was my dress?’

His laugh sent shockwaves through her chest, radiating warmth. ’No, I would not.’

‘Well no, it wasn’t that exactly, but… I’m not a proper lady. I’ll never be. But I want to live my life with you, so I’ll at least take on the word. It’s just a word.’

‘Just a word,’ he echoed. ‘Make it mean what you want it to mean.’

‘I will hold you to that promise.’

‘You won’t have to. I mean it.’

‘I don’t know if I can give you children.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll joust and I’ll fight and probably make you want to pitch me into Shipbreaker Bay at least once a week.’

‘You’re talking to me like I don’t already know you, Arya.’

‘Just making sure.’

‘You are the same as you have always been to me, milady. A massive pain in my arse.’ He pressed a kiss into her neck and she shivered even as she laughed. ‘And you are my best friend. And my dearest love.’

‘I wouldn’t even try to be a lady for anyone else. Nobody else is good enough for me.’ She shifted so she could kiss him directly on the mouth and as she did, a thought came to her that was part memory and part dream: ‘That has always been true, you know. We could disappear into the forests and live as we once did and I would love you.’

Another chuckle. ‘Well, there are plenty of forests to disappear to at Storm’s End, and a featherbed waiting for you when you want it.’

She smiled almost in spite of herself, wondering when she had started to feel this much like herself again. ‘Would you bind my hair with leaves?’

‘As milady wishes. I'll give you yellow silk and I'll give you gowns of golden leaves. No matter what, I’ll keep you warm and safe-‘

Before he could continue, she interrupted: ’And I’ll guard _you_ with _my_ sword.’

‘Seems to me we don’t have to be one thing or another. Just us.’

She yawned and felt her eyes droop shut. Gendry then yawned in response. ‘Just us.’

Arya drifted asleep thinking that it was funny that two such small words could hold such power.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last little bit of Arya and Gendry's conversation makes reference to 'My Featherbed' from the stories themselves - not mine. Details at: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/My_Featherbed


	9. The Long Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show is *done* and I find that rather liberating in terms of being able to concentrate on our canon divergence and AUs and whatever else we feel like doing in fic.
> 
> I'm not 100% where this is going - there may be another chapter, or just an epilogue. Let's see... I'll get the next bit up soon, whatever form it takes!
> 
> And of course: Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments - while I'm battling the publishing gods in real life, it's so nice to get such a great response! I'm glad folks are enjoying it. This isn't the kind of thing I'd usually write really, so it was a nice diversion

Gendry awoke with a start, as he so often did. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart even before opening his eyes. It was easier to wake with Arya there - her presence proved he was not beyond the Wall, nor in King’s Landing, nor with the Red Woman - but the terrors that still filled his slumbering hours could not be dissuaded completely, even by such powers as love.

Eyes still closed, he reached up to feel the softness of her hair and- _oh_ , the flower crown. He cracked an eye and saw it half-crushed between her hair and his shoulder.

Had Gendry been as truly good as he wished to be, this would’ve been cause for momentary sorrow; he wasn’t quite as good as all that and felt a pinch of satisfaction to see the fucking thing wrecked. Wrecked, because Arya Stark loved _him_.

It had taken much to stand and let Ned and Arya be - yet had also been as simple as breathing. He might not be _perfectly good_ , but he cared enough about both of them to at least wait until he was in the forge to give free rein to his fury. Not just fury, though: fear, too. He could admit that to himself, now that the fear was gone.

He had lost Arya twice before: once to his own misguided sense of freedom and the Red Woman; once to his even more misguided proposal. For all the death that surrounded them both, he had only doubted his future then.

Gendry liked being a Lord more than he thought he would, and for different reasons. He liked helping people, liked being able to make a difference. He liked taking the chaos of life and giving it some direction and order through the power of his word. The respect of others was nice and the sense of security that came from coin was helpful… but those were not the reasons he _liked_ being a Lord.

And seven hells, R’hllor and the rest, he really didn’t give the merriest of fucks about the name. All his life he’d _yearned_ for a proper name and a house and now he had it, he realised that it only mattered as much as other people said it did.

He’d use the name Baratheon, but his father had made it ridiculous; his uncles had pulled it down through petty wars. He had work to do until he could feel proud of _Baratheon_ for himself.

Arya shifted a little, still asleep. He couldn’t imagine her being _Arya Baratheon_ and assumed _Arya Stark_ she would stay. The thought made him smile and he quite unconsciously pressed a kiss to what he thought was her hair but was mostly crushed flower.

Just at the very moment he was wondering if they could remain like this forever, a shadow appeared on the other side of the door and after a moment: ’My lady?’

Ser Brienne.

Arya barely stirred.

‘My lady?’

Gendry shifted Arya so that he could sit up and go to the door. ‘She’s asleep.’

Brienne’s first reaction was of surprise, the second of relief, the third was that fragment of propriety that she still possessed.

‘I’m… glad to see you here, my lord… but Lady Sansa asked me to remind Arya that she is expected at this evening’s feast and she ought to look presentable at least.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ he promised, with a glance into the sky. The sky was already darkening. There was not much time.

Brienne glanced at him. ‘You might also want to do the same.’

He looked down. He hadn’t bothered to dress up before coming to see Arya. ‘We’ll both be presentable, I promise, Ser.’

Brienne walked away, her long legs propelling her with speed along the way. Gendry returned to the tent and found Arya awake, looking down at the flower crown now in her lap.

‘I didn’t mean to ruin it.’

‘You were tired. It’s been a… long day.’

‘Yes, it has. Sansa wants me to dress up, doesn’t she?’

‘She said “presentable”.’

‘Ugh,’ Arya slumped back down onto the bed. ‘I really don’t want to…’

‘But you will.’

‘Oh, will I?’

‘Course you will. If you don’t go, people will whisper.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, about Ned, about Jon… about me, even. But mostly? You.’

‘I’ll kill anyone who-‘

He crossed over to take her hand and unnecessarily help her to her feet. ‘Or you could just show them that you don’t care about what anyone thinks and save your laundresses a job.’

‘If I must.’

‘And…’ he paused a moment. ‘I won’t be able to walk in with you if you stay away.’

‘Fine. But I’m not wearing a dress.’

‘As you wish, milady.’

‘I suppose you have to go and get ready too?’

‘Aye.’ He did not move a muscle and he did not release her hands.

‘Are you going?’

‘Aye.’ No movement.

‘Really?’

‘Are you really going to be my wife?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

Gendry pulled her into a tight, warm embrace from which she made no move to escape. A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, startling them from their bubble, and he released her.

He sighed and half-hated how lovesick he sounded. ’I really must go.’

‘Go then.’

This time, Gendry found himself able to at least move away even if he did feel suddenly cold. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Off you go, then.’

He darted forward again to kiss her squarely, firmly on the lips, then left before he could change his mind again.

 

*

 

Gendry was indeed back as soon as he could be, though not as soon as he’d like. Davos had insisted on his taking an actual bath and as he’d gone to the trouble of acquiring hot water, Gendry couldn’t say no. He’d then been obliged to dress up again, this time in a yellow and black doublet that made him feel he’d tear it if he so much as moved a shoulder without warning. His newly-made leather breeches were about as comfortable as they could be and felt less ridiculous to him that the stockings some highborn men were wearing.

With his hair still damp, he made his way across the camp to Arya’s tent. Any number of people greeted him warmly and he just about remembered to reply.

At her tent at last, he straightened his doublet for the nineteenth time and asked permission to enter.

‘Come in.’

He did and immediately moved to cover his eyes.

‘What?’ Arya asked as if she was not only half-dressed.

‘Gods, Arya, what if I’d been someone else?’

She shrugged a fresh shirt on and started to lace it up. ’I knew it was you. And you’re hardly unfamiliar-‘

Gendry took his hand away from his face but still couldn’t quite bring himself to openly stare. Instead, he reached across to help her slide her leather doublet over her shoulders. Her dagger necklace was already around her neck, glinting in the light.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said.

Her eyebrow quirked in the way he loved most and for a moment he thought to be on the receiving end of a sharp retort. She said nothing about that. ‘You smell like a garden.’

He grimaced. ‘Davos insisted I have a bath.’

‘How terrible for you.’

‘The things I do for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Who else?’

The smile on her face was radiant, glorious and made his heart stutter a beat or two. He’d felt faint last night but this was something else entirely.

‘Shall we then, milady?’ He held out his arm.

With a theatrical sigh, she took it. ’Yes, my lord. We shall.’

They made quick work of the journey to the feast. At the entrance, he moved to release her arm but she held on.

‘We’re a set,’ she said. ‘I suppose we should let everyone else know that.’

It would be a lie to suggest that the gathered lords, ladies, knights and squires were waiting to see whether Arya Stark actually showed up and if she would be alone. It was noticed by most that Lord Baratheon had not arrived yet either, and so it was not altogether a surprise when they walked in together. Arya returned every stare with one of her own, daring anyone to take exception to anything she might say or do.

Brienne and Pod greeted them warmly; Sandor Clegane smirked, said something obscene and walked away in search of ale and chicken; Sansa clasped Arya’s hands firmly as if pressure could answer her questions.

Others came and went. In time, Arya and Gendry would understand that they were perfectly charming to everyone who came to speak to them, but neither remembered much of that.

The King and Queen were announced to great applause. If anyone noticed how wretched Jon looked despite his crown and raiment, they were not impolitic enough to say so in the room.

Then, it was time for Arya and Gendry to approach and be greeted.

Jon’s sharp grey eyes went from Arya’s face to Gendry’s, to their clasped hands. ‘All is well then? I take it you’ll be asking permission-‘

‘Fuck off, Jon.’ The words were out of Arya’s mouth before she could even pretend to try and stop them. ‘I don’t need your permission as King or my brother for anything.’

‘ _Asking permission_ ,’ Jon continued as if she had not spoken, though his eyes crinkled with humour. ‘To leave here early so you might return home as soon as may be.’

It was almost certainly not what he was going to say, but it was what he said.

‘That sounds nice,’ Arya conceded.

‘Don’t you want to marry with your family present?’ The Queen asked more with curiosity than anything.

Arya shrugged. ‘If they want to be there. Haven’t specified _when_.’

‘I would suggest soon,’ Jon snapped back.

Despite himself, Gendry snorted a laugh. ‘Where’s the nearest godswood?’

‘Hayford Hall has a small one.’

Gendry looked down at Arya, the question in his eyes.

She nodded, almost shrugging although he could see the tension in her shoulders. ‘It’s as good a time as any.’

And so, a merry band made their way from the feast to Hayford, where Lady Ermesande was more than pleased to open up her home to them.

Almost everyone that they cared to have present was indeed. Sandor Clegane made the most reluctant stand-in father for Arya and Ser Davos was as demonstrably happy as he’d ever been to see Gendry there. Tormund, Brienne and Pod, Jon and Daenerys. Even Ned Dayne, who was friend enough to both to wish them well and mean it.

Bran might be the Stark in Winterfell, but Arya had no doubt he was there - somehow.

If Sansa fussed a little over the informality, it was short-lived.

The godswood was small but its weirwood tree was suitably ancient. There, on a clear moonlit night, Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon were wed without fanfare or fuss, just as the Old Gods of the First Men required. They were not wearing cloaks for the night had been warm, but Arya spoke loudly:

‘I’ve been given the Baratheon cloak enough times already. The Old Gods will understand.’

At that, a breeze picked up and shook the limbs of the tree. Several blood-red leaves fell around Arya, and she took that as agreement from the Old Gods.

They knelt, said their words, and were married. As they kissed, their friends and family applauded, cheered and whooped as though they were on the tourney grounds.

‘Well,’ Arya said afterwards, feeling a little lightheaded, ‘At least there’s already a feast going on.’

Gendry had not moved away from the tree.

‘Gendry?’

‘I’m supposed to carry you to the feast.’

She stood, hands on hips in challenge. ‘That is a tradition.’

‘Fuck tradition?’ He asked.

‘Fuck tradition.’ She took his arm. ‘Although I’m terribly weary.’

‘How? You’ve slept most of the day!’

‘I won’t have you carry me in like a child. But…’ Without warning, she jumped onto his back. ‘Come on then, bull.’

His hands came around to push her up into a better position and she held onto his shoulders. None of their friends, already leaving the godswood, were especially surprised to see Gendry barrel past them with Arya on his back shrieking with laughter.

Daenerys and Jon followed arm in arm, sedate and quiet.

‘I am glad to see Arya so happy after so much… tumult,’ Daenerys said, tone deliberately light.

‘Me too.’

‘I am glad you came home.’

‘I was always going to come back.’

‘I… wasn’t certain.’

‘I am sorry for that.’ Jon cleared his throat. ‘Arya asked me if I have nightmares.’

‘And you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just that?’

‘Yes. She doesn’t have to worry about that. As you said, she’s happy.’

‘They will get better-’

‘Aye, well.’

‘They will.’ Daenerys hopped over a tree root she’d almost tripped over in the dark. ‘Things will get better.’

‘How do you know?’ It was said more with desperation than accusation.

‘Because it has to. I didn’t come all this way and fight this hard to repeat the mistakes of our forebears.’

‘I know.’ He brought her hand up to kiss it. ‘It will get better.’

‘Are you returning to the city with me tomorrow?’

A pause. ‘Aye. If you want me there.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then, yes.’

 

*

 

Those at the feast were divided largely into two groups: those put out at not being invited to the Baratheon-Stark wedding and those looking forward to the bedding. Both groups were disappointed.

Arya and Gendry put up with a grandiose speech in their honour by the Queen and another shorter one from the King. They put up with cheers in their name and lewd remarks from those around them (chiefly, it must be said, courtesy of Tormund Giantsbane and Sandor Clegane).

They would not tolerate a bedding ceremony. At first call for such, Arya climbed onto the high table brandishing her Needle.

‘Just one of you try and touch me. Just fucking _one_.’

Silence reigned a moment, before Clegane barked out a harsh laugh that sounded remarkably complimentary.

Gendry stood up, far more sober and steady than any other man there. ‘Challenge accepted.’

He scooped her up as if she weighed no more than a bag of sugar and hefted her over his shoulder. With long, quick strides, they were out of the feasting hall in moments. A cheer erupted behind them.

Although Arya’s first instinct was to fight to be released, in this case, she did not until they were outside his tent. He set her down.

’Sorry, I just- I didn’t want them pawing at you.’

‘Or at you?’

‘Also that.’ He took up her hands. ‘Are you tired, milady?’

‘Certainly not! I’ve slept most of the day, you see.’

‘You really want to do this here, where anyone could hear?’ He opened the tent to let her enter.

She had not been inside his tent until now and looked around: it was much the same as hers: fine but plain. A small camp bed sat at the end of the tent.

‘You are my- husband,’ she grimaced as the word caught in her throat. ‘I love you, but that fucking word.’

‘Don’t use it then, _wife_.’

‘Gods, I think I prefer _milady_.’

‘Good. So do I. Milady.’

‘You are… mine-’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘And that means we get to do whatever we like and nobody gets to object.’

‘Yes, but do you want them to _hear_? I’m not sure I do.’

‘I don’t think we can achieve much on that- can it really be called a bed? A set of sticks and a blanket, perhaps.’

‘We can do whatever you like, Arya. But perhaps… we’ll be in Storm’s End soon enough.’

‘You want to wait until then? Are you _mad_? It’s been an age since-‘

He was interrupted by a loud giggle from a nearby tent and an accompanying moan that confirmed his misgivings to him, despite what the rest of his own self was demanding. ‘I will bed _my lady_ properly.’

‘What do you propose then?’

‘I propose that we ready ourselves to leave at first light. The sooner we arrive at Storm’s End, the better.’

‘Or…’

‘Or?’

He could almost see the thoughts forming in her head. ‘We might find somewhere on the way home.’

His throat all but closed up at hearing her use the word _home_ so casually. ‘And?’

‘And you shall be my forest love and me your forest lass.’

Gendry wrapped his arms around her and pulled her off her feet to kiss her with all the fervour that he had not dared displayed in the godswood.

When he was done and they both gasped for breath, he looked around. ‘Do you think we need to wait until first light?’

She leaned into him. ‘Only to ensure I don’t lose _my lord_ to a bad fall in the dark. Come on, let’s sleep, the better to wake early.’

 

*

 

News of the wedding spread across the whole camp by morning and although they were up and ready to go at first light, they were not the only ones arisen (or still awake from the night before) and were obliged to make their way through a gauntlet of well-wishers.

‘I’ll pack everything up and follow behind, lad.’ Ser Davos told them when Gendry explained their intended journey. ‘Off you go. Don’t get too lost in the woods, eh?’ His lips tugged into a smirk.

‘With Wenda the White Fawn over there,’ Gendry nodded over to where his wife - his fucking _wife! -_ was accepting a small posy of flowers from a little girl with her least prominent scowl. ‘I can make no promises.’

‘Aye. Well, see you when we see you, eh?’

Gendry hugged Ser Davos warmly. ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘Coming to find me. Setting me a-rowing even before that. I’d have lost this forever without you. And… for helping me find my way as Lord. For _all_ of it, Davos.’

Davos coughed, evidently trying not to let a tear or two fall. ‘My pleasure, _Clovis_.’

‘I know you _aren’t_ , but I’m glad to- if I’d known my father. I mean-‘

Davos patted his back. ‘I know, lad. I’ll see you at home in Storm’s End soon enough. Plenty to do.’

‘Soon enough. Yes.’

Arya had made her way through the crowd and was already seated on her steed. He allowed a few more back-pats and handshakes before mounting his own horse.

She grinned. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

With cheers following behind them, the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End began their journey home.

The long way.


	10. Three Moons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your brilliant comments in response to this - I'm so glad you're enjoying it!
> 
> In some respects, I *really* like the outcome Arya got in the show and in others I detest and loathe it.
> 
> This is what I think could happen if the wars were won with a little less genocide. As a friend and I were saying the other day: if the Long Night had lasted longer than one single night, if the various elements of the living army had had a chance to live and fight and survive together, things might have been very different. This is what could happen in such a situation.
> 
> Now, I think this is essentially the end but... I have an idea for a final chapter so I won't mark it as complete just yet. I actually don't love 'Happy Ever After' endings where a pair get married and the happiness is implied - that's not especially interesting to me. So maybe a final part will come soon. I have a train journey later today so I reckon that'll give me a chance to write it and see if it works.

_Some Time After The Tourney of the Dawn_

 

The world was a dangerous, unkind place. Everyone knew that. Everyone also knew that Storm’s End was one of the least terrible places to live and its Lord was the best of the bunch when it came to lordly men.

Over the course of some time, Storm’s End also became famous for the quality and craftsmanship of its metalwork. Not just armaments like shields, swords and maces, but finer work like furniture and fittings of such high quality that even the Lord of Highgarden was obliged to wait for his orders to be completed.

It was no dreamland, but it was safer than most of the kingdoms and taxes were a darn sight fairer than most (this was where smallfolk mentioned Highgarden again). The Lord was known to be a thoughtful, just man who was liked as much as he was respected. He had been one of them and he hadn’t ever forgotten what it was like to be one of them.

The people who worked and lived in and around Storm’s End fell into two groups: those who had been present before Lord Gendry arrived, and those who came since. The former group had seen the young lord grow into his title and his castle and his life; the latter tended to assume he had always been as he was.

Of all the new residents, one of the newest was a young lad of around eleven name days. He’d arrived only a few moons earlier with his mother, a laundress. As such, he was not yet fully used to the rhythms of life at Storm’s End.

One morning, when the sun was bright and the ground almost dry, he was helping ready the Lord’s horse for him and happened to meet Ser Davos as he was loading the saddlebags with provisions.

‘Ser Davos?’ he asked, a little nervously, for it wasn’t exactly the done thing to address his superiors out of nowhere.

Ser Davos regarded him more with curiosity than impatience, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Aye, lad?’

‘Does the lord have a lady? I heard the cook talking about a lady but I ain’t ever seen her.’

‘Well, lad… Ed, isn't it? There is a Lady of Storm’s End. She just isn’t here at the moment.’

‘I’ve never seen her, and we’ve been here ages.’

Ser Davos ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Ah well, she’s been away for a while.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know, truth to tell.’

Ed’s nose wrinkled up as he tried to understand.‘Doesn’t she like the lord or something?’

‘Oh, I’d say she likes him very much. But you see, our lady is a wolf and you can’t keep a wolf locked up for always.’

‘Doesn’t the lord mind?’

‘He misses her when she’s not here but…’ Davos hesitated, wondering how to continue without giving away Gendry’s personal feelings to a green boy. ‘You see, he loves her with all his heart and that means letting her be herself. No, not letting. Accepting.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘The difference?’ Davos thought about this seriously - Ed was not used to grown men taking him seriously and he straightened up at the thought of it. ‘The difference is in the freedom of it. Lord Gendry doesn’t let Lady Arya do anything. It’s not up to him. Lady Arya can be and do whatever she wants because she can.’

‘But…’ Ed couldn’t understand it, really he couldn’t. ‘How does he know she’s safe? Or behaving herself?’

Ser Davos outright laughed at that and Ed felt his face grow warm with embarrassment as one of the stablehands turned to look at them. ‘He knows she’s safe because she’s one of the greatest warriors in the world. And as for behaving herself? I don’t know that Lady would know how. But Lord Gendry knows he can trust her, and I think that’s more important, don’t you?’

Ed wasn’t sure what to think, and he hadn’t much chance to think more as Lord Gendry Baratheon emerged from the keep and stomped down the steps in his heavy boots and across the yard. His gold and black cloak swirled around him - Ed hadn't thought a cloak could be menacing before, but this one could.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ Ser Davos nodded to his lord.

Ed thought that the lord looked absolutely furious about something and he didn’t dare even look at him.

The Lord looked over the horse and the packed provisions and goods. ‘Did you ready my horse, Ed?’

‘I helped, my- my lord.’

Gendry’s ferocity cracked. ‘You did a fine job. Are you and your mother settling in?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good. I’m very glad.’ He ruffled Ed’s hair as Ser Davos had and now turned to that man. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully not more than a few weeks.’

Davos just nodded. ‘As you like, my lord. Give Lady Arya my regards.’ He winked at Ed then.

‘I will.’

‘Will you be coming home the long way, my lord?’

Ed saw a deep red blush rise up the lord’s neck from under his leather jerkin. ‘That depends on her.’

‘So, yes, then?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Then we won’t wait up. Be safe, Gendry.’

‘That also depends on her.’ He scowled now, the fury back as he mounted his horse. ‘Three moons, Davos. Three _whole_ moons.’

‘Aye. A romantic might think she enjoys being fetched.’

‘You’ve met Arya.’

‘Aye. Like I say-’

‘Never, ever let her hear you say that, old friend. Not if you value your life. I’ll be back… when we’re back.’

Ed and Ser Davos watched Lord Gendry ride away, sedate and sensible at first but taking the horse to a gallop almost as soon as he was out of the gates.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Ed.

‘Maybe when they return, you will.’ Davos paused again. ‘Or maybe not for a few years yet, lad. Now, I’d better get on. No rest for the wicked.’

 

*


	11. Rainwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry goes to fetch Arya home...

Four days’ hard ride after leaving Storm’s End, Lord Gendry of House Baratheon reached his destination. It was a small clearing, almost at the other side of the Rainwood, and hard to miss if you weren’t looking for it,. A small fire burned merrily despite the damp, and a figure lay under a cloak. They were apparently sleeping, although it was later in the morning than might be safe for such.

A horse as black as dragon glass stood a short distance away, happily chewing on hay. He hitched his own next to that sand steed and made to approach the slumbering person.

Before he got close, a short sword glinted in the milky morning light filtering through the canopy above.

Not so asleep and deadly even lying on the ground and hidden by a heavy black cloak.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said, holding his hands harmlessly in the air. ‘I’m just looking for someone.’

A muffled voice emerged from under the cloth, ’Oh?’

‘My wife.’

‘Have you lost her? How careless.’

‘Not lost.’

‘So you came to hunt her down and drag her home by her hair?’

‘Nay. I’ve come to bind her hair with leaves. You see, she is my dearest love.’

The figure finally sat up, the heavy cloak falling away. Arya looked at him a moment, lowered the sword and rested back on her elbows.

‘You took your time,’ she said as though she had only been away from home for a few hours.

‘I’ve been half-mad,’ he admitted. He unclasped his own sword belt and let it fall to the ground. ‘Three bloody moons, Arya! You’ve never been gone so long in one stretch before.’

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, as though this was enough. Perhaps it was, for he knelt down beside her and kissed her forehead so chastely that she rolled her eyes at him.

‘Half-mad,’ he repeated. ‘I was going to wait until you came home until Davos told me to fuck off before I caused an uprising.’

She reached out to brush his hair out of his eyes. ‘I bet there’s a lot of very flat metal in that forge?’

‘Merrell told me to fuck off a moon turn ago. I don’t think I’ve got the respect of my men at all.’

Arya laughed and pulled him down onto the blanket she was using as a bed. ‘I think they care about you enough to tell you when you’re being stubborn.’

‘Stubborn?’

‘I thought you’d come along _weeks ago!_ I was almost bored at one point.’

‘Why didn’t you say? I was trying to give you space!’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Woman, I swear you are a _massive_ pain in my arse.’

‘Oh, I love you too.’

‘How’ve you been?’

’Quite well. I rode to Mistwood before turning back towards Storm’s End. Lady Mertyns sends her good wishes to her liege lord. And I stopped at Griffin’s Roost on the way. You really should give that to someone. Long overdue a resident or two.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘I’ll think on it.’ He lay back and stared up at the trees.

‘And you? How’ve you been? Other than driven half-mad by your selfish wife?’

‘Selfish? You aren’t- who did you overhear again?’

‘Kitchen women. They think I don’t treat you as you deserve, _milord_.’

He pulled her into a tight embrace and buried his face in her neck. She smelt of rain and woodsmoke. A tension he’d been determinedly ignoring for weeks faded from his muscles and he let out a contented sigh.

‘They think you should stay at home pandering to my every whim?’

‘Not the words they’d use but… that does seem to the prevailing opinion.’

‘Just as well it’s my opinion that matters and not theirs then.’

She took in and released a long slow breath before replying. ‘Aye… I’m glad you’re here.’

‘So am I.’

‘I do miss you when I’m away.’

‘I know.’

‘Sometimes I wish I could be all of that-’

He stopped her words with a kiss. ‘You don’t need to be. That’s not you. And anyway, if you didn’t fuck off, how could I come and find you?’

‘That’s true.’ She sighed as more kisses found their way onto her skin. ‘There’s not much land with Griffin’s Roost and most of the smallfolk have-‘

‘Such talk at a time such as this?’

‘What kind of time is this?’

‘The kind of time when an impatient Storm Lord is reunited with the woman he loves the most.’

‘The _most?’_

Gendry’s laugh rumbled through his entire chest as she smacked him solidly in the arm. ‘Little Iseulde declared last week that she loved me most of all the people she knows.’

‘How many name days has she?’

‘Three. And I love Roanna, of course-’

‘You love _anyone_ who is willing to feed you.’ She sat up. ‘Speaking of… I haven’t eaten yet.’

‘Should I go and catch-’

‘Done.’ She waved a hand over at where a skinned rabbit hung, now quite drained of blood and ready to cook. ‘Caught it first thing. Want some?’

‘Sounds nice. I brought some of Roanna’s apple cakes.’

She turned back to stare at him. ‘How long have you been riding?’

‘Four days.’

‘And you saved me some apple cakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You really do love me.’

‘Well, they might be stale.’

She took up the fresh rabbit and set it up on a spit above the fire. ’Where did you rest your head on those nights?

‘Outside. It’s strange how normal it feels to do so, even after so much time spent in a grand castle.’

‘I don’t- I mean, the things we endured as children will stay with us forever.’

Gendry frowned and reached out to touch her again as she moved away from the fire, wiping away rabbit gunk with a rag. ’How are your nightmares?’

‘Sometimes better, sometimes not. Yours?’

’Same.’ He tangled his fingers with hers and for a moment they both basked in the simple joy of being in contact with the other. Funny, they thought independently and in concert, the things you miss when your dearest love is away from you.

Eventually, he broke the silence with news he had been holding onto for weeks: ’Jon has gone up North.’

Arya startled, seemingly ready to leap to her feet, mount her horse and hunt her brother down. ’For how long? Did he say where- How _far_ North? Did he go alone? Is he going to meet up with Tormund? What does Daenerys think? Did Sansa say anything? And did he tell you why he was going?’

Gendry laughed out loud. A few birds stirred and flew away at the sound. ‘You should hear yourself, Arya Stark.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Tell me!’

‘You can dish it out but you can’t take it.’

She scowled a moment, but just one. ‘That’s a remarkable thing for _you_ to say.’

Despite how alone they were and how long they had been wed, Gendry blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know. I can’t fathom why not. I mean, you’ve been here for quite some time and you’re still fully dressed.’

‘Arya-‘

‘I think,’ she affected an attitude of despondency. ‘I must be losing my charms-’

He reached up to grab her and pull her back down to the ground. She shrieked, they kicked up dirt and more birds were disturbed into flying into the sky.

 

*

 

Hours later, the Lord of Storm’s End found himself ankle-deep in a stream trying with some difficulty to wash dirt out of his hair and out of fresh, red scratches on his back. His dearest love lay stretched on a stone watching him with sleepy curiosity, warming her skin in the early afternoon sun.

He flicked water in her general direction. ‘When do you want to head home?’

‘Soon, I suppose.’

‘You don’t sound convinced, love.’

‘You have your responsibilities.’

‘My chief responsibility is to you. Do you want to stay away longer? Or go somewhere else? I can- I can go home without you.’

Arya raised an eyebrow. ‘If you return without your woman, I think there would be an uprising.’

‘Like I give a fuck.’

‘You absolutely do.’

‘I care about the people. The lords and ladies can fuck off.’

‘What a way with words you have, milord.’

‘I never claimed to be a bard.’

‘We can return tomorrow morning. Bit late to leave now.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘As certain as I ever am.’

‘Are you planning to go north after Jon?’

Arya all but curled up like a woodlouse then, tiny and afraid. ‘I told you. I’m never going north again.’

He waded through the water to sit with her. ‘Never again is a very long time.’

‘Never.’

‘As you wish.’ He lifted her up into his arms and carried her back to the little clearing. ‘You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to go. You don’t have to stay at Storm’s End. Whatever you want to do, you are free to do it.’

He repeated this several times until the tension left her muscles and her joints unfolded again and was able to stand on her own. ’You’re free, Arya.’

‘I’ll never be free of you,’ she mumbled as she slid into fresh clothes. ‘I don’t even mind.’

 

*

 

Six days later, young Ed was in the Storm’s End stable yard cleaning endless piles of horse tack. The stable master had decided that everything needed to be perfectly clean by the time the Lord got back, despite the fact that no stable had ever been totally clean and perfect unless it never had horses in it. He’d finished the halters and bridles and was halfway through stirrups when one of the gatemen gave the call that riders were approaching.

Ser Davos was fetched just in time for the gates to swing open and admit Lord Gendry on his massive horse and a woman Ed had never seen before on a smaller, nimbler beast.

Ed knew this must be the Lady of Storm’s End. Nobody else could dare to be so bold as to leap down from the horse unaided, nor to carry a sword at her hip like it had always been there. And surely nobody else would dare punch Lord Gendry in the arm as she did.

‘I told you my Argella could outrun your ridiculous horse,’ she said.

Lord Gendry rolled his eyes. ‘And I didn’t say she couldn’t. I do understand how sand steeds work.’

‘Hello, Davos!’ Arya hugged Davos. ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Of course.’ Davos looked over her shoulder at the lord. ‘There’s no living with this one when you go wandering. I am glad to see you returned home safely. And sooner than I imagined.’

Lord Gendry laughed and handed over the reins of his horse to the stable master. Arya caught sight of Ed then.

‘Greetings.’ Her clear grey eyes fixed on him and he felt his heart speed up. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

‘I’m Ed, milady.’

‘I am glad to know you. I’m Arya. And this is Argella.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Isn’t she? The Queen gave her to me as a gift.’

‘She must really like you!’

‘This is the Nightslayer, lad,’ said Ser Davos.

Ed’s mouth fell open and stayed that way. This woman barely even taller than him could not possibly be the _Nightslayer_?

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said with a wink. ‘Sometimes I don’t believe it either.’

Ed stared at her, wondering if she really was real. Mayhaps the Lord imagined her and being a lord, made everyone else imagine her too?

Lord Gendry laughed them. ‘Come on, woman. You’re in dire need of a bath.’

‘Ah, one thing before I lose you both again,’ said Ser Davos. ‘You received news while you were gone.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lord Bronn is hosting a tourney at Highgarden and wants to know if the Knight of the Laughing Tree might ride again?’

Ed watched as Lord Gendry and his lady held an entire conversation with nought but their eyes.

Lady Arya smiled and Ed swore he’d never seen a lovelier face except his own mother’s. No wonder Lord Gendry was so determined to fetch her home. No wonder he loved her as much as Ser Davos had said and which he could now see for himself as the Lord leaned over to kiss her on the mouth in front of everyone!

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And she’s going to fucking _win_.’

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! Thanks so, so much for all the fabulous and amazing comments over these eleven chapters!
> 
> As is often the case, I could've probably blathered on for a few more thousand words but this feels like a neat place to bring this specific story to a close.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend DR for helping me formulate the idea during a pretty epic conversation...
> 
>  
> 
> So, this is also for my friend R, who declared she's not going to watch any more so that everyone left actually lives...


End file.
